The Dead Letter and The Figure Eight 9780822385349

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the dead letter & the figure eight

Metta Fuller Victor

the dead letter &

the figure eight

introduction by catherine ross nickerson duke university press durham and london 2003

© 2003 Duke University Press All rights reserved Design by C. H. Westmoreland Typeset in Janson with Bulmer display by Tseng Information Systems, Inc. Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper  The Dead Letter: An American Romance was originally published in 1867 by Beadle and Company under the name of Seeley Regester. The Figure Eight; or, The Mystery of Meredith Place was originally published in 1869 by Beadle and Company under the name of Seeley Regester.

Contents

Introduction 1

The Dead Letter: An American Romance 11

The Figure Eight; or, The Mystery of Meredith Place 209

Introduction catherine ross nickerson

The two novels presented here are foundational, but long-forgotten, works in the history of American detective fiction. Fans, collectors, and literary historians almost universally point to Edgar Allan Poe as the inventor of the detective story, and most go on to trace the development of the detective novel in the work of British writers like Wilkie Collins, Arthur Conan Doyle, and Agatha Christie. They tend to return to the American scene only with the arrival of the hard-boiled style in the 1920s, a violent, minimalist aesthetic most fully expressed in the work of Dashiell Hammett. What this history of detective fiction overlooks is the fact that between the 1860s and the 1920s the detective novel flourished in the United States—in the hands of women writers. Metta Fuller Victor was the first writer, male or female, to produce full-length detective novels in the United States with the publication of The Dead Letter in 1867 and The Figure Eight in 1869. Those novels, which blended several popular genres with the central plot of murder and its investigation, influenced other writers, especially Anna Katharine Green, who was the most successful author of detective novels in the postbellum period. Green in turn influenced many women writers, creating an identifiable tradition of women’s detective fiction that extends well into the twentieth century. The close association of that tradition with an earlier body of popular women’s writing, the domestic novel of the 1850s, produced a style we can call domestic detective fiction because of its distinctive interest in moral questions regarding family, home, and women’s experience. We do not have a great deal of information on the life of Metta Fuller Victor, though we do have her prolific legacy of fiction. Born in 1831, she grew up in Pennsylvania and Ohio and attended a female seminary. She began to write poetry as a teenager, often with her sister Frances Fuller, and the two published a volume of poetry when Metta Fuller was twenty.

She went on to a remarkable career in the dime novel and was successful in several genres for both children and adults: the western, the romance, temperance novels, and rags-to-riches tales. She wrote relatively little under her own name and chose different pseudonyms for different genres, a practice that allowed her to develop a following among several sectors of readers. When she was twenty-five, she married Orville Victor, editor of Beadle and Adams, and it seems fair to say that she built the Beadle empire of publications with him. She was editor of Beadle’s Home and Beadle’s Monthly, in which The Dead Letter first appeared in serial form in 1866. Victor was best known for an abolitionist dime novel (which she published under her own name) called Maum Guinea and Her Plantation ‘‘Children’’ (1861). Alongside this highly productive career in letters, she raised nine children. In 1876 she published Passing the Portal, a book that purports to be an autobiography but is quite frustrating to would-be biographers since it conforms remarkably closely to the conventions of domestic fiction and not to the facts we do know about her life. Her career enriches our picture of the cultural place of popular fiction at midcentury, for she was both a skilled operator within the cheap, popular market and a serious-minded moral reformer, writing vehement fictional and editorial pieces against slavery, alcohol, and Mormon polygamy. In the mid-nineteenth century, the celebrity female author emerged as an increasingly significant figure, with the polemical Harriet Beecher Stowe, the dramatic E. D. E. N. Southworth, and the wry Louisa May Alcott as leading lights. Victor worked both the domestic reform and the (more daring) thriller angles open to women writers in this period. The way that she published fiction on reform-movement themes under her own name and other less reputable genres under pseudonyms shows that her solution to the limitations of the literary market was similar to that of Alcott, whose numerous pseudonymous thrillers have only recently been reconnected to an author known as ‘‘the Children’s friend.’’ Yet Victor does not seem to have been nearly as secretive as Alcott; moreover, with her position of power at Beadle and Adams, she had more control over the content and publication of her own work. Indeed, we have to understand her as a publisher and editor as well as an author, someone very close to the commercial meaning of popularity, on the one hand, and, on the other, the power of literature to strike a chord of sympathy or social outrage. In her detective fiction, her main purpose is to entertain, yet we also see striking reflections of the historical and cultural concerns of the immediate postbellum period. Victor wrote The Dead Letter and The Figure Eight under the pseudonym of Seeley Regester. In each, she takes the apparatus of the detective story Poe 2

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set forth in the ‘‘tales of ratiocination’’ of the 1840s (namely, ‘‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue,’’ ‘‘The Purloined Letter,’’ ‘‘The Mystery of Marie Rogêt,’’ and ‘‘The Gold-Bug’’) and expands it into a full-length novelistic form. As far as we can ascertain, she is the first American writer, male or female, to do so. (Interestingly, Alcott employs a semiparodic version of Poe’s Auguste Dupin in her 1865 thriller ‘‘V. V., or Plots and Counterplots,’’ but the story does not have the requisite structure and plot elements to function as detective fiction.) The basic narrative structure that Poe established, and that all writers since have worked from, is a doubled one, according to the narrative theorist Tzvetan Todorov. The narrative that we follow as readers is the story of an investigation and features the detective in a starring role. It commences with the discovery of a corpse or corpses and proceeds through the gathering of physical evidence, interviewing of witnesses, identification of suspects, and revelation of the murderer. Below the surface of the novel is another story—the story of the murder—including the motives, methods, coverup, and subsequent murders connected to the first. The main job of the detective is to reconstruct the story of the murder, a story deliberately fragmented and buried by the murderer, who will be identified and punished as soon as the true story is known. In the paradigm that Poe laid down, the detective story is a battle of wits between the brilliant detective and the devious criminal, and its great pleasure is the ‘‘aha!’’ moment when we watch the detective name the murderer and explain the chain of intellectual processes by which he came to know the answer to an enigma. As the brevity of Poe’s stories suggests, he first conceived the detective story, for all its structural sophistication, as a concentrated form. Victor brought a very different aesthetic to the story of criminal investigation, that of the popular women’s novel of the nineteenth century. The style of domestic fiction includes a more leisurely pace, with the narrator’s voice lingering over details of setting, dress, behavior, and, most importantly, emotion. Structurally, Victor’s two detective novels have the same doubled narrative as Poe’s stories, but they also include subplots and narratorial devices that delay the unfolding of the investigation narrative considerably. The most striking deviation from Poe’s formula is the way that the narrative of The Dead Letter opens in the middle of the investigation, when Richard Redfield is at his lowest point emotionally. He has just discovered an important clue in the case of Henry Moreland’s murder, but we readers are entering so fully in medias res that we cannot grasp its significance in the plot of the investigation. The effect of this opening strategy is to train our attention on the emotional state of the detective and on the psychological effects of investigating a criminal mystery. The pleasures of reading Victor’s detective fiction are rather different from those

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offered by Poe’s stories; they are the kind illuminated by the literary critic Peter Brooks, who explores the ways in which storytelling contains both a drive toward closure and a resistance to premature ending. Rather than pushing forward to the moment when the masterly detective will reveal all, Victor’s novels draw us into narrative structures of delay, reversal, and false leads, all of which allow us to experience the emotional intensity of a household living out the aftermath of violent crime. In Victor’s hands, the detective story becomes a more moral form, shaped by the domestic novel’s interest in sentiment and in the problems of the middle-class home. Each of her detectives is a young man who is a member of the household under investigation, is romantically entangled with a woman in the case, and becomes a suspect even as he attempts to solve the crimes. The fact that each novel is narrated by this detective figure reinforces the focus on the psychological and emotional aspects of crime, thus making a moral critique of the far-reaching effects of violent events. By itself, this shift of emphasis is striking in comparison with the more cool and intellectual interest of Poe’s stories. But Victor embeds more significant social critique in her fiction by locating treachery and murder within the domestic realm, among people connected by familial and social ties. Poe’s ‘‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’’ includes a scene of murder within a domestic setting, but the perpetrator is a complete outsider, not only to the household but even to the human race. In the domestic detective tradition that Victor established, the murderer is almost always someone intimately related to the household. This person is therefore a hypocrite in addition to anything else he or she may be (killer, thief, blackmailer), and investigation of such a criminal requires special insight. To unmask hypocrisy in the privileged classes, the detective has to have an insider’s sensibility. Victor pointedly explains that Detective Burton may work cases for the police, but comes from the business class, not the police ranks. She reinforces the importance of the insider-detective in domestic detective fiction with her use of Redfield and Meredith, both rising young professionals. She remakes the idea of the detective in fiction and asserts that his place is really in the home, investigating those who seem to be above reproach. Victor and the writers who adopted her style depict the domestic world of the middle and upper classes not as an impregnable refuge from the rough-and-tumble values of the capitalist market but as a place under constant threat of corruption by the evils of greed, ambition, and selfishness. Of course, these novels were meant to entertain. Both novels in this volume celebrate the joy of escapade and include a number of adventures only tangentially related to the investigative plot. Events like the trips to Mexico and California in The Dead Letter and the search for missing 4

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gold in The Figure Eight are part of the structure of pleasurable delay but are also features of the boys’ adventure stories that Victor wrote under other names. Both novels also include several elements from the gothic novel, including the haunted house, the clairvoyant child, and the grieving widow-bride of The Dead Letter and the tower room and sleepwalking governess of The Figure Eight. The gothicism may come as a surprise to some readers, but it probably should not if we recall the blood relation of detective fiction and gothic horror in Poe’s work. The gothic mode is always oscillating between the concealment of secrets and their dramatic revelation, and we can think of detective fiction as a more rationalized patterning of the same concerns. The generic blend that makes up these novels—domestic fiction, detective story, adventure story, gothic tale—raises questions about audience that are not easy to decide. The Dead Letter was published between hard covers with a price tag of fifty cents, indicating that the publishers felt that the book’s primary audience was affluent enough to afford something considerably more expensive than a dime novel. The emphasis in the novels on the concerns of the moneyed classes and the valorization of the rising professional as moral arbiter of their problems all seem to invite the middleto-upper-class reader more warmly than any other kind. Still, the range of genres in the novels and the inclusion of sympathetic marginal figures like Leesy Sullivan and Joe Meredith himself would allow points of entry for readers of both sexes and several class positions. The Dead Letter features a detective who is markedly different from Poe’s rational expert and from real detectives in the postbellum period. Burton’s history as a businessman and his disgust with judicial corruption clearly distinguish him from ordinary police detectives, who were considered a rather scurrilous bunch. According to Larry Hartsfield and Marcus Klein, in this period private detectives were contracted by local police departments; they solved crimes like theft and murder by the use of extensive networks of criminal informants and by personal knowledge of the whereabouts and habits of criminals. The line between lawmen and outlaws was often blurred, something that the citizenry felt keenly when detectives expected tips for returning stolen property (and thieves also felt when asked to pay off the detective to avoid prosecution). Victor’s desire to create a more heroic detective accounts for Burton’s sense of moral mission, his refusal of any fee from the Argylls, and even his ability to follow criminals invisibly and without becoming part of their world. Young Redfield, who becomes an active assistant to Burton in the case involving his employer’s family, can also rightly be called a detective figure. Victor’s use of a lawyer as protagonist puts her novel in a tradi-

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tion of stories established in the antebellum period, those about gentlemen lawyers who uphold the most idealistic vision of the function of the law even at personal and financial cost. As Maxwell Bloomfield argues, the gentleman lawyer distinguishes himself from the entrenched establishment, which is complacent and occasionally dishonest, and from the young go-getters, whose ambition or greed allows them to ignore their obligations to the weak and unprotected. Redfield, however, does not do any actual lawyering in this novel, and the work Victor (via Burton) assigns him is more about the gathering of information than about the interpretation of the law. More specifically, the detectives in this novel are mainly concerned with the erotic entanglements of the household. Without revealing too much detail, I wish to point the reader’s attention to the love triangles that converge on various members of the Argyll household. Burton and Redfield need to understand jealousy and desire in an encompassing way before they can make any headway in solving the case. Indeed, in this novel detective work resembles social work more than hard science, and the detectives must intervene in some of the less savory erotic trajectories of the plot. Redfield, in particular, is deeply enmeshed in the plots of love and ambition that lead to murder, and part of his appeal is his ability to rise above the snares of his enemies. If The Dead Letter is largely about sentiment and ambition as opposing forces, we do see them worked out in the happy have-everything ending of the novel, about which I will maintain a polite silence. In any case, Victor’s novel is remarkably sanguine about the effects of surveillance on professional-class domestic life—at least as long as the detective comes from that same social class. The Figure Eight also features a young professional who gets drawn into the investigation of a murder, this time of his own uncle. It is in many ways a more tightly woven novel than The Dead Letter and explores the meaning and use of disguise at several levels. On the one hand, Meredith’s investigational technique of disguise is necessitated by the fact that he is himself a suspect. At various points in the story, he plays a farmer, an African American waiter, and a physician (although he is studying medicine, he is by no means qualified to practice it). Victor’s use of disguises connects the developing role of the detective to another concurrent popular form—the Civil War spy memoir, in which men and women recounted exciting tales of intrigue, infiltration, and elaborate disguises. In that literature, ‘‘spy’’ and ‘‘detective’’ are used as synonyms, most notably in the chronicles of Alan Pinkerton, who went from Civil War spy to founder of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, a company mainly engaged in strikebreaking and employee surveillance (the case of James McParland and the 6

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Molly Maguires was one of their biggest). In the immediate postbellum period, spies, like detectives, were figures of great moral ambiguity, and their popularity seems connected to the broader moral reorientation of that time. Readers will note how often Meredith refers to himself as a spy in The Figure Eight, and how mixed his own feelings are about that role. To spy is to work under false pretenses, the idea of which runs counter to core middle-class values of sincerity and forthrightness. However, Meredith must use strategic insincerity to fight the entrenched deceit and falsity of his uncle’s household. That household includes the flirtatious young widow, a lovesick governess, and the governess’s socially ambitious brother, none of whom Meredith trusts to pursue the best interests of his cousin, the uncle’s lovely and innocent daughter by his first marriage. The theme of phoniness continues into the ancillary crime of counterfeiting that Meredith’s investigation uncovers. Meredith’s work, like Redfield’s, is largely in the realm of the erotic, and once he can figure out the lines of love and hate in the household he can identify the murderer of his uncle and return a hidden fortune in gold to his cousin. This novel seems especially concerned with something we might call the problem of social purity. The themes of disguise and counterfeit are connected to a more basic interest in dangerously liminal characters. The novel is packed with such people, from the governess, always halfway between the status of servant and the intimacy of family member, to her brother, who woos women well above his social station with a false impression of wealth, to the Cuban wife, whose nationality alerted readers of the time that she might be of mixed race and passing. Meredith is himself a liminal character. He was raised in rather brutal poverty before being rescued by his uncle, and it is made clear from the beginning that he is still too rough to be allowed to marry his beloved cousin. Though he attempts to prove his obedience to his uncle’s wishes by studying medicine and his manliness and patriotism by fighting in the Mexican War, he is a suspect member of the household until he becomes a detective. Questions about social climbing, racial passing, and gender roles were pressing matters in the upheaval that followed the Civil War. Victor’s novels, which evoke worlds of suspicion and deception, show that these issues of personal identity were understood at the time to be connected to matters of national identity. When Victor has Dr. Meredith bring home a fortune from the California gold rush, she reminds her readers of how recently California had joined the union, and when she has him bring home a bride from Cuba, she reminds them (and us) of how annexation of Cuba was a real possibility in the antebellum expansionist ethos. Victor pointedly evokes that political history by describing Meredith’s sojourn as a

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drummer boy in the Mexican War as the advance of ‘‘the stars-and-stripes to tropic skies.’’ The relation of the United States to California, Mexico, and Cuba was not simply a matter of geography; it also involved racial definition as an integral part of national identity. Part of the motivation to consider a battle over Cuba was the fear that the island, so close to the slaveholding South, would be ‘‘Africanized’’ and ruled by freed slaves. As Eric Sundquist and Shirley Samuels have argued, concerns over the politics of race in the Caribbean were pervasive in American literature of the mid-nineteenth century. In Victor’s work we can see familiar themes of difference and distance in the depiction of Mexico and Cuba, as hinted at in the phrase ‘‘tropic skies.’’ Inez, the Cuban bride, brings her husband’s household a world of trouble that has its roots in the moral inferiority of Spanish women, who are unable to practice ‘‘those principles of honor and right . . . regarded as the natural heritage of [American] countrywomen.’’ When the murderer in The Dead Letter flees to Mexico, he is, though American, able to blend in, since all around him the ‘‘Spaniards’’ are ‘‘so accustomed to treachery and untruth among their race.’’ And when his co-conspirator is unmasked, he is banished from the borders of the United States. So one of the premises of these novels is that the racial and national other (both collective and individual) must be purged from the American scene; furthermore, criminals are conceptualized as ‘‘polluting foreigners’’ even if they are native-born. The gold from California is, like Inez, an importation that turns the northeastern home of the Meredith family upside down. And like the invocation of the Cuba question, the inclusion of the gold rush as a troublesome historical event shows how political themes like abolition, expansion, and Free Soil are woven through popular literature. For the Meredith gold evokes the history of the rise of California to statehood, which includes, as Robert Lee argues, a nostalgia for agrarian life and small production structured by virulent racism and xenophobia. While the good doctor attempts to put his fortune to ultimately altruistic use as a research fund, the particular temptation this gold produces is fascinating. The thief hatches a complex and unusual method of counterfeiting coins with real gold and stolen molds from the U.S. mint. The currency he produces has real value; it is fraudulent only in its appropriation of a governmental imprimatur and in the fact that the counterfeiter can ‘‘make money’’ without earning it. There is an echo of this conflation of the real and the fake in the scene in which Meredith dons blackface to pose as a ‘‘mulatto waiter.’’ The details of his costume suggest that he is personifying the urban dandy, a standard character from minstrel shows—laughable because of his pre8

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tensions and lack of education but also, as the cultural historian Eric Lott points out, a locus of anxiety about racial and class transgressions. When he gazes on himself as a blackface dandy, Meredith reports: ‘‘I did not smile at my ridiculous figure . . . this was not a farce but an awful reality that I was engaged in.’’ What Victor captures in this moment, and in many others in these two novels, is the texture of experience during the profound upheavals of the period following the Civil War, when questions about what the United States was and was not, who was an American and who was not, what was an American value and what was hypocrisy, took on a special urgency. The distance of time allows us to wonder how closely the entertainments of the postbellum period (or of any period) reflected and documented the political and cultural concerns of that historical moment. Like The Dead Letter, The Figure Eight suggests that there was a new place in the imagination of the moneyed classes for the detective figure, someone who would root out the corruption and fakery but would never forget that he was one of them in the end. The plot developments surrounding Redfield and Meredith imply that the detective figure is always mediating between righteousness and criminality, and between the private values of a family and the public sanctions of the law. He also needs to negotiate between the obligation to investigate and the need to watch his step. The early detective, brought into the realm of the domestic, first learns about and then attempts to remove disruptions of the proper functioning of that sphere, including romantic rivalries, sexual misalliances or exploitations, selfish or irresponsible allocation of money, and deceptions of any kind. While each detective is in a liminal relationship to the family he investigates, he ultimately wins his heart’s desire and marries into the family, having proven his loyalty and virtue through detective work. Whether we read these novels as fans of detective fiction or students of nineteenth-century culture, it is hard, I think, not to be struck by their historical significance. It shows us that women were active agents in the formation of American popular culture, even in a genre many readers and critics have seen as a fundamentally masculine one. Victor, who seems to have had a peculiar genius for managing and blending genres, established as early as the 1860s that the detective novel could be both a means of entertainment and a vehicle for social commentary. Her main target is hypocrisy, the root of which is ambition and greed. The critique here is ultimately of particularly capitalist forms of evil, and in that sense the domestic detective novel is linked to both the mid-nineteenth-century domestic novel and, in a foreshadowing capacity, the hard-boiled urban detective novel.

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for further reading Alcott, Louisa May. ‘‘V. V., or Plots and Counterplots.’’ In The Hidden Louisa May Alcott, ed. Madeleine Stern, 315–404. New York: Avenel, 1984. Bloomfield, Maxwell. ‘‘Law and Lawyers in American Popular Culture.’’ In Law and American Literature, ed. Carl Smith, John P. McWilliams, and Maxwell Bloomfield, 125–73. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1983. Brooks, Peter. Reading for the Plot: Design and Intention in Narrative. New York: Random House, 1984. Green, Anna Katharine. The Leavenworth Case. 1878. Reprint. New York: Dover, 1981. . Lost Man’s Lane: A Second Episode in the Life of Amelia Butterworth. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1898. . That Affair Next Door. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1897. Hartsfield, Larry K. The American Response to Professional Crime, 1870–1917. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1985. Johannsen, Albert. The House of Beadle and Adams and Its Nickle and Dime Novels. 3 vols. New York: Basic Books, 1980. Klein, Marcus. Easterns, Westerns, and Private Eyes: American Matters, 1870–1900. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1994. Lee, Robert. Orientals: Asian Americans in Popular Culture. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1999. Todorov, Tzvetan. The Poetics of Prose. Translated by Richard Howard. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1977. Lott, Eric. Love and Theft: Blackface Minstrelsy and the American Working Class. New York: Oxford University Press, 1995. Nickerson, Catherine Ross. The Web of Iniquity: Early Detective Fiction by American Women. Durham: Duke University Press, 1999. Samuels, Shirley, ‘‘Miscegenated America: The Civil War.’’ In National Imaginaries, American Identities: The Cultural Work of American Iconography, ed. Larry J. Reynolds and Gordon Hutner, 141–58. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000. Sizer, Lyde Cullen. ‘‘Acting Her Part: Narratives of Union Women Spies.’’ In Divided Houses: Gender and the Civil War, ed. Catherine Clinton and Nina Silber, 114–33. New York: Oxford University Press, 1992. Sundquist, Eric. To Wake the Nations: Race in the Making of American Literature. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993. Victor, Metta Fuller. Lives of Female Mormons: A Narrative of Facts Stranger Than Fiction. New York: D. W. Evans, 1860. . Maum Guinea and Her Plantation ‘‘Children,’’ or, Holiday-week on a Louisiana Estate: A Slave Romance. New York: Beadle and Co., 1861. . Passing the Portal. New York: G. W. Carleton, 1876. . The Senator’s Son. 1853. Excerpted in Hidden Hands: An Anthology of Women Writers, 1790–1870, ed. Lucy M. Freibert and Barbara A. White, 306–21. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1985.

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The Dead Letter an american romance

By Seeley Regester

Part I chapter i The Letter I paused suddenly in my work. Over a year’s experience in the Dead Letter office had given a mechanical rapidity to my movements in opening, noting and classifying the contents of the bundles before me; and, so far from there being any thing exciting to the curiosity, or interesting to the mind, in the employment, it was of the most monotonous character. Young ladies whose love letters have gone astray, evil men whose plans have been confided in writing to their confederates, may feel but little apprehension of the prying eyes of the Department; nothing attracts it but objects of material value—sentiment is below par; it gives attention only to such tangible interests as are represented by bank-bills, gold-pieces, checks, jewelry, miniatures, et cetera. Occasionally a grave clerk smiles sardonically at the ridiculous character of some of the articles which come to light; sometimes, perhaps, looks thoughtfully at a withered rosebud, or bunch of pressed violets, a homely little pin-cushion, or a book-mark, wishing it had reached its proper destination. I can not answer for other employees, who may not have even this amount of heart and imagination to invest in the dull business of a Government office; but when I was in the Department I was guilty, at intervals, of such folly—yet I passed for the coldest, most cynical man of them all. The letter which I held in my paralyzed fingers when they so abruptly ceased their dexterous movements, was contained in a closely-sealed envelope, yellowed by time, and directed in a peculiar hand to ‘‘John Owen, Peekskill, New York,’’ and the date on the stamp was ‘‘October 18th, 1857’’ —making the letter two years old. I know not what magnetism passed from it, putting me, as the spiritualists say, en rapport with it; I had not yet cut the lappet; and the only thing I could fix upon as the cause of my attraction was, that at the date indicated on the envelope, I had been a resident of Blankville, twenty miles from Peekskill—and something about that date!

Yet this was no excuse for my agitation; I was not of an inquisitive disposition; nor did ‘‘John Owen’’ belong to the circle of my acquaintance. I sat there with such a strange expression upon my face, that one of my fellows, remarking my mood, exclaimed jestingly: ‘‘What is it, Redfield? A check for a hundred thousand?’’ ‘‘I am sure I don’t know; I haven’t opened it,’’ I answered, at random; and with this I cut the wrapper, impelled by some strongly-defined, irresistible influence to read the time-stained sheet inclosed. It ran in this wise: ‘‘Dear Sir—It’s too bad to disappoint you. Could not execute your order, as everybody concerned will discover. What a charming day!—good for taking a picture. That old friend I introduced you to won’t tell tales, and you had not better bother yourself to visit him. The next time you find yourself in his arms, don’t feel in his left-hand pocket for the broken toothpick which I lent him. He is welcome to it. If you’re at the place of payment, I shan’t be there, not having fulfilled the order, and having given up my emigration project, much against my will; so, govern yourself accordingly. Sorry your prospects are so poor, and believe me, with the greatest possible esteem, ‘‘Your disappointed Negotiator.’’

To explain why this brief epistle, neither lucid nor interesting in itself, should affect me as it did, I must go back to the time at which it was written.

chapter ii Events of a Night It was late in the afternoon of a cloudy, windy autumn day, that I left the office of John Argyll, Esq., in his company, to take tea and spend the evening in his family. I was a law-student in the office, and was favored with more than ordinary kindness by him, on account of a friendship that had existed between him and my deceased father. When young men, they had started out in life together, in equal circumstances; one had died early, just as fortune began to smile; the other lived to continue in well-earned prosperity. Mr. Argyll had never ceased to take an interest in the orphan son of his friend. He had aided my mother in giving me a collegiate education, and had taken me into his office to complete my law studies. Although I did not board at his house, I was almost like a member of the family. There was always a place for me at his table, with liberty to come and go when 14

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I pleased. This being Saturday, I was expected to go home with him, and stay over Sunday if I liked. We quickened our steps as a few large drops were sprinkled over us out of the darkening clouds. ‘‘It will be a rainy night,’’ said Mr. Argyll. ‘‘It may clear away yet,’’ I said, looking toward a rift in the west, through which the declining sun was pouring a silver 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, lounging upon a sofa. ‘‘Where are the girls?’’ ‘‘They haven’t descended from the heavenly regions yet, uncle.’’ ‘‘Dressing themselves to death, I expect—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 like James Argyll much, nor he me; so that, as much as we were thrown together, our intercourse continued constrained. 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 wondering 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 the room. She was dressed with unusual care, and her face wore a brilliant, expectant smile. The smile was for neither of us. Perhaps James thought of it; I am sure I did, with secret suffering—with a sharp pang which I was ashamed of, and fought inwardly to conquer. She spoke pleasantly to both of us, but with a preoccupied air not flattering to our vanity. Too restless to sit, she paced up and 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 a right 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 regarding the weather. ‘‘How provoking that it should rain to-night,’’ she said, and as the slight

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cloud of vexation swept over her face, the blackness of night closed over the gleam of sunset, so suddenly that we could hardly discern each other. ‘‘The rain will not keep Moreland away,’’ I answered. ‘‘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 rain came down with a roar that was deafening. Eleanor rung for lights. ‘‘Tell cook to be sure and have chocolate for supper—and cream for the peaches,’’ she said to 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 some 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 Eleanor down stairs; ‘‘there will be nobody here to-night.’’ Both James and myself objected to being 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 for us— ‘‘—Nor for Henry Moreland either—he never looks at me after the first minute. 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 harmony allowed; 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, stealing glances, now and then, at her tiny watch. All at once there occurred one of those pauses which precede the fresh outbreaking of a storm; as if startled by the sudden lull, James Argyll paused in his playing; just then the shrill whistle of the locomotive pierced the silence with more than usual power, as the evening train swept around 16

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the curve of the hill not a quarter of 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 rose upon the storm prolonged and doleful. 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 hopelessly loved, it came with an effect perfectly 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 some strange, unseen disaster. Then it sunk into a hopeless cry, so full of mortal anguish, that I involuntarily put my fingers to my ears. Perhaps James felt something of the same thing, for he started from the piano-stool, walked twice or thrice across the floor, then flung himself again upon the sofa, and for a long time sat with his eyes shaded, neither speaking nor stirring. Eleanor, with maiden artifice, took up a book, and composed herself to pretend to read; she would not have her lover to know that she had been so restless while awaiting his coming. Only Mary fluttered about like a humming-bird, diving into the sweets of things, the music, the flowers, whatever had honey in it; and teasing me in the intervals. I have said that I loved Eleanor. I did, secretly, in silence and regret, against my judgment and will, and because 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 my own sufferings, though I had never felt attracted toward his character. He seemed to me to be rather sullen in temper, as well as selfish; and then again I reproached 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. I loved, without a particle of hope. Eleanor was engaged to a young gentleman in every way worthy of her: of fine demeanor, high social position, and unblemished 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 heaven’’—in age, character, worldly circumstances, beauty and cultivation, there was a rare correspondence. 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 during his week of summer idleness here that he had made the acquaintance of Eleanor Argyll. At this season of the year his business kept him in the city; but he was in the habit of coming out every Saturday afternoon and spending Sabbath

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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 December, Eleanor was to be married. Another half-hour passed away and the expected guest did not arrive. He usually reached the house in fifteen minutes after the arrival of the train; I could see that his betrothed was playing nervously with her watchchain, 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. ‘‘I 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.’’ ‘‘A little rain, papa! I never heard such a torrent before; besides, it was not the storm, of course, for he would have already 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?’’ ‘‘I’ll 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 I 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 girl 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 a merry evening. 18

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A touch of chagrin, a fear that we should suspect how deeply she was disappointed, caused Eleanor to appear in unusually high spirits. She sung whatever I asked of her; she played some delicious music; she parried the wit of others with keener and brighter repartee; the roses bloomed on her cheeks, the stars rose in her eyes. It was not an altogether happy excitement; I knew that pride and loneliness were at the bottom of it; but it made her brilliantly beautiful. I wondered what Moreland would feel to see her so lovely—I almost regretted that he was not there. James, too, was in an exultant mood. It was late when we retired. I was in a state of mental activity which kept me awake for hours after. I never heard it rain as it did that night—the water seemed to come down in solid masses—and, occasionally, the wind shook the strong mansion as if it were a child. I 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 affected 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, lingering about the place on earth most dear to it. The rest of the household slept well, so far as I could judge, by its silence and deep repose. Toward morning I fell asleep; when I awoke the rain was over; the sun shone brightly; the 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 darkness, dressed myself quickly, for the breakfast-bell rung, and descending, joined the family of my host at the table. In the midst of our cheerful repast, the door-bell rung. Eleanor started; the thought that her lover might have stayed at the hotel adjoining the depo on account 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 a more graceful touch. The servant came in, saying that a man at the door wished to speak with Mr. Argyll and Mr. Redfield. ‘‘He says it’s important, and can’t wait, sir.’’ We arose and went out into the hall, closing the door of the breakfastroom behind us. ‘‘I’m very sorry—I’ve got bad news—I hope you won’t’’—stammered the messenger, a servant from the hotel. ‘‘What is it?’’ demanded Mr. Argyll. ‘‘The young gentleman that comes here—Moreland’s his name, I believe—was found dead on the road this morning.’’ ‘‘Dead!’’

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‘‘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?’’ ‘‘I don’t know, Mr. Argyll. I haven’t had time to think.’’ ‘‘I 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 have 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 surrounded by many people, we found the distressing message too true. Upon a lounge, in a private sitting-room, lay the body of Henry Moreland! The coroner and a couple of physicians had already arrived. It was their opinion that he had died from natural causes, as there was not the least evidence of violence to be seen. 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 garments, for the purpose of a further examination. It was a stab in the back. Not a drop of blood—only a small triangular hole in the cloak, through the other clothing, into the body. The investigation soon revealed the nature of the death-wound; it had been given by a fine, sharp dirk or stiletto. So firm and forcible had been the blow that it had pierced the lung 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 having been at first perceived; and as he had fallen, so he had lain 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 darkness of night and storm! What enemy had Henry Moreland, to do this deed upon him? It is useless now to repeat all the varying conjectures rising in our minds, or which continued to engross the entire community for weeks thereafter. 20

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It became 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 twenty rods from the busiest haunts of men, on a peaceful street—sudden, sure, unprovoked! 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 dwelling, 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 have 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 tell her, will you not? I 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 walking with frozen feet as I passed out of the chamber of horror into the peaceful sunlight, along the very path he had last trodden, and over the spot where he had fallen and had lain so many hours undiscovered, 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 few persons were searching 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.

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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 embodiment 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 dropping, now flamed in the sunshine. Although 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 yet graceful style; with such sunshiny windows and pleasant porticoes that it had nothing of a somber look. It is strange what opposite emotions will group themselves in the soul at the same moment. The sight of those lordly trees called up the exquisite picture of Tennyson’s ‘‘Talking Oak’’: ‘‘Oh, muffle 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. I recalled how I once, in my madness, before I knew that she was betrothed to another, had apostrophized the monarch of them all, in the passionate words of Walter. Now, looking at this ancient tree, I perceived with my eyes, though hardly with my mind, that it had some fresh excoriations upon the bark. If I 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 herself, as she moved about her chamber. I 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 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 22

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bliss, caroling hymns 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 handkerchief on the table, and he looking over the last evening’s paper. The sight of him gave me a 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 any delay in meeting Eleanor was eagerly welcomed. 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 matter?’’ ‘‘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 undertake the delivery of the message. ‘‘I!’’ he exclaimed, leaning against the case of books beside him. ‘‘I! oh, no, not I. I’d be the last person! I’d look well telling her about it, wouldn’t I?’’ and he half laughed, though trembling from head to foot. 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 passed. She was as white as the morning dress she wore. ‘‘Where is he?’’ Her voice sounded almost natural. ‘‘At the Eagle Hotel,’’ I answered, without reflection, glad that she showed such self-command, and, since she did, glad also that the terrible communication was over. She turned and ran through the hall, down the avenue toward the gate. In her thin slippers, her hair uncovered, fleet as a vision of the wind, she fled. I sprung after her. It would not do to allow 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 go to him! Don’t you see, he will need me?’’ She made an effort to break away, looking down the street with strained eyes. Poor child! as if, he being dead, she could do him any good! Her

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stunned heart had as yet gone no further than that if Henry was hurt, was murdered, he would need her by his side. She must go to him and comfort him in his calamity. 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.’’ I had 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 him,’’ said Eleanor, 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 distractedly for the housekeeper. There was noisy wailing now in the mansion; the servants 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 sympathy. In the midst of cries and tears, the insensible 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 housekeeper came down, informing 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. After being informed of what had occurred, he went up to his daughter’s room. With uttermost tenderness he gave her the details 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. Friends came in and went out with no notice from her. ‘‘I wish they would all leave me but you, Mary,’’ she said, after a time. ‘‘Father, you will let me know when—’’ ‘‘Yes—yes.’’ He kissed her, and she was left with her sister for a watcher. Hours passed. Some of us went into the dining-room and drank of the strong tea which 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 afternoon 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. He declined, upon the plea of being too much unstrung to go out. As the sad procession reached the garden in front of the mansion with its burden, I observed, in the midst of several who had gathered about, a woman, whose face, even in that time of preoccupation, arrested my attention. It was that of a girl, young and handsome, though now thin and 24

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deadly pale, with a wild look in her black eyes, which were fixed upon the shrouded burden with more than awe and curiosity. I 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 appearance she might have 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 yesterday afternoon. Not the one poor Moreland came in; the one before. I was on board myself, and noticed her particularly, as she sat facing me. She seemed to have some trouble on her mind.’’ I seldom forget faces; and I never forgot hers. ‘‘I will trace her out,’’ was my mental resolve. We passed on into the house, and deposited our charge in the back parlor. I thought of Eleanor, as she had walked this room just twenty-four hours ago, a brilliant vision of love and triumphant beauty. Ay! twentyfour hours ago this clay before me was as resplendent with life, as eager, as glowing with the hope of the soul within it! Now, all the hours of time would never restore the tenant to his tenement. Who had dared to take upon himself the responsibility of unlawfully and with violence, ejecting this human soul from its house? I shuddered as I asked myself the question. Somewhere must be lurking a guilty creature, with a heart on fire from 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 themselves 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 wished 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, pressing 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

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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. I was thinking of you when I took the rose out of my dress at night. I dreamed of you all night, but if I had known where you were, I would have gone out barefooted, I would have stayed by you and 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 so gay—no because I 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 fear that her reason was shaken, I spoke with Mary, and we two tried to lift her up, and persuade her out of the room. ‘‘Oh, don’t try to get me away from him again,’’ she pleaded, with a quivering smile, which made us sick. ‘‘Don’t be troubled, Henry. I’m not going—I’m not! They are going to put my 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 as if expecting an answer; the miserable smile upon her white face—these were things which haunted those who saw them through many a future slumber. ‘‘You will not say you forgive me for singing last night. You don’t say a word 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 did it?’’ Her cousin was standing near; her eyes fell upon him as she asked the question. The 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 as if we could endure no more. Going to the family physician, who waited in another apartment, I begged of him to use some influence to withdraw 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 so much wisdom and tact, that the danger to her reason seemed passing; persuading her also into taking the powder 26

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which he himself administered; but no argument could induce her to leave the mute, unanswering clay. The arrival of the relatives was the last scene in the tragedy of that day. Unable to bear more of it, I went out in the darkness 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 revolved in my brain, coming 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, helped my mind to fix upon every slightest circumstance which might hold a suspicion. ‘‘Could that woman?’’—but no, the hand of a woman could scarcely have given that sure and powerful blow. It looked like the work of a practiced hand—or, if not, at least it had been deliberately given, with malice aforethought. The assassin had premeditated the deed; had watched his victim and awaited the hour. Thus far, there was absolutely no clue whatever to the guilty party; bold as was the act, committed in the early evening, in the haunts of a busy community, it had been most fatally successful; and the doer had vanished as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed him up. No one, as yet, could form any plausible conjecture, even as to the motive. In the name of Eleanor Argyll—in the name of her whom I loved, whose happiness I had that day seen in ruins, I vowed to use every endeavor to discover and bring to punishment the murderer. I know not why this purpose took such firm hold of me. The conviction of the guilty would not restore the life which had been 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 pursuit. In action only could I feel relief from the oppression which weighed upon me. It could not give life to the dead—but the voice of Justice called aloud, 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 there in silence and darkness, pondering the matter, I heard a light rustle of the dry leaves upon the ground, and felt, rather than saw, a figure pass me. I might have 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. As she crossed an open space, the starlight revealed the form and garments of a female; the next moment she passed into the obscurity of shadows again, where she remained some time, unsuspicious of my proximity, like myself leaning against a tree, and watching the mansion. Apparently sat-

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isfied that no one was about—the hour now verging toward midnight— she approached with hovering steps, now pausing, now drawing back, the west side of the mansion, from one of the windows of which the solemn light of the death-candles shone. Under this window she crouched down. I could not tell if her attitude were a kneeling one. It must have been more than an hour that she remained motionless in this place; I, equally quiet, watching the dark spot where she was. For the instant that she had stood between me and the window, her form was outlined against the light, when I saw that this must be the young woman whose strange conduct at the gate had attracted my attention. Of course I did not see her face; but the tall, slender figure, the dark bonnet, and nervous movement, were the same. I perplexed myself with vain conjectures. I could not help connecting her with the murder, or with the victim, in some manner, however vague. At last she arose, lingered, went away, passing near me with that soft, rustling step again. I was impelled to stretch out my hand and seize her; her conduct was suspicious; she ought to be arrested and examined, if only to clear herself of these circumstances. The idea that, by following her, I might trace her to some haunt, where proofs were secreted, or accomplices hidden, withheld my grasp. Cautiously timing my step with hers, that the murmur of the leaves might not betray me, I followed. As she passed out the gate, I stood behind a tree, lest she should look back and discern me; 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 committed; but when nearly there, perceiving that some persons, though long past midnight, still hovered about the fatal place, she turned and passed me. As soon as 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 tenement-house, the entrance-hall to which was open. I ought to have gone at once for officers, and searched the place; but I unwisely 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. ‘‘I thought it was—was—’’ ‘‘You are not superstitious, James?’’ for his hollow voice betrayed that he was frightened. ‘‘You did give me a confounded uneasy sensation as you came up,’’ he answered with a laugh.—How can people laugh under such circumstances? —‘‘Where have you been at this hour, Richard?’’ 28

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‘‘Walking in the cool air. The house smothered me.’’ ‘‘So it did me. I could not rest. I have just come out to get a breath of air.’’ ‘‘It 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 led; but ache as my heart might, I had no words of comfort for sorrow like hers—so I passed on.

chapter iv Moreland Villa Several minor circumstances prevented my going in search of the woman who had excited my suspicions on the previous day, until about nine o’clock of the morning, when I engaged an officer, and we two went quietly, without communicating our plans to any one else, to the tenement-house before spoken of. Although Blankville was not a large 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-story frame building, occupied by half a dozen families, mostly those of Irish laborers, who found work in the vicinity of the depot. I had seen the strange girl ascend to the 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 middle-aged woman, who held the knob in her hand while she waited for us to make known our errand; we both stepped into her apartment, before we spoke. A rapid glance revealed an innocent-looking room with the ordinary furniture of such a place—a cooking-stove, bed, table, etc.; but no other inmate. There was a cupboard, the door of which stood open, showing its humble array of dishes and eatables—there were no pantries, nor other places of concealment. I was certain that I had seen the girl enter this room at the head of the stairs, so I ventured: ‘‘Is your daughter at home, ma’am?’’ ‘‘Is it 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, she is your niece? I suppose so—a tall girl with dark eyes and hair.’’

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‘‘That’s Leesy, herself. Was you wanting any work done?’’ ‘‘Yes,’’ answered the officer, quickly, taking the matter out of my hands. ‘‘I wanted to get 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 coarse muslin in a basket near by. ‘‘It’s 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 railroad that hasn’t wives of their own to do it—but for the fine bussums’’ —doubtfully—‘‘though, to be sure, the machine does the stitches up beautiful—if it wasn’t for the button-holes!’’ ‘‘Where is Leesy? Doesn’t she stop with you?’’ ‘‘It’s her I have here always when she’s out of a place. She’s an orphan, poor girl, and it’s not in the blood of a Sullivan to turn off their own. I’ve brought her up from a little thing of five years old—given her the education, too. She can read and write like the ladies of the land.’’ ‘‘You didn’t say where she was, Mrs. Sullivan.’’ ‘‘She’s making the fine things in a fancy-store in New York—caps and collars and sleeves and the beautiful tucked waists—she’s such taste, and the work is not so hard as plain-sewing—four dollars a week she gets, and boarded for two and a half, in a nice, genteel place. She expects to be illivated to the forewoman’s place, at seven dollars the week, before many months. She was here to stay over the Sunday with me—she often does that; and she’s gone back by the six o’clock train this mornin’—and she’ll be surely late at that by an hour. I tried to coax her to stay the day, she seemed so poorly. She’s not been herself this long time—she seems goin’ in a decline like—it’s the stooping over the needle, I think. She’s so nervous-like, the news of the murder yesterday almost killed her. ’Twas an awful deed that, wasn’t it, gintlemen? 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 fine, generous, 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’s passed here often on his way to his father’s house, and to Mr. Argyll’s; and Leesy sewed in their family these two summers when they’ve been here, and was always twice paid. When she’d go away, he’d say, laughing in his beautiful way, ‘And how much have you 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-piece and say, ‘Women aren’t half paid for their work! it’s a shame! if you hain’t earned a dollar a day, Miss Sullivan, you hain’t earned a cent. So don’t be afraid to take it—it’s your due.’ And that’s what made Leesy think so much of him— 30

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he was so thoughtful of the poor—God bless him! How could anybody have the heart to do it!’’ I looked at the officer and found his eyes reading my face. One thought had evidently flashed over both of us; but it was a suspicion which wronged the immaculate memory of Henry Moreland, and I, for my part, banished it as soon as it entered my mind. It was like him to pay generously the labors of a sickly sewing-girl; it was not like him to take any advantage of her ignorance or gratitude, which might result in her taking such desperate revenge for her wrongs. The thought was an insult to him and to the noble woman who was to have been his wife. I blushed at the intrusive, unwelcome fancy; but the officer, not knowing the deceased as I knew him, and, perhaps, having no such exalted idea of manhood as mine, seemed to feel as if here might be a thread to follow. ‘‘Leesy thought much of him, you think, Mrs. Sullivan,’’ taking a chair unbidden, and putting on a friendly, gossiping air. ‘‘Everybody speaks well of him. So she sewed in the family?’’ ‘‘Six weeks every summer. They was always satisfied with her sewing— she’s the quickest and neatest hand with the needle! She’d make them shirts of yours beautiful, if she was to home, sir.’’ ‘‘When did she go 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. When she said she meant to go to the city and get work, I was minded to let her go, for I thought the change mebbe would do her good. But she’s quite ailing and coughs dreadful o’ nights. I’m 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 weaklike that when the neighbors came in with the news yesterday, she gave a scream and dropped right down. I didn’t wonder she was took aback. I ain’t got done trembling yet myself.’’ I remembered the gentleman who had first spoken to me about the girl said that she had come in on the morning train Saturday; I could not reconcile this with her coming up from the depot at dark; yet I wished to put my question in such a way as not to arouse suspicion of my motive. ‘‘If she came in the six o’clock train she must have been on the same train with Mr. Moreland.’’ ‘‘I believe she was in the seven o’clock cars—yes, she was. ’Twas halfpast 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. ‘‘She’s at No 3—Broadway,’’ naming a store somewhere between Wall street and Canal.

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‘‘Are you wanting her for any thing?’’ she asked, suddenly, looking up sharply as if it just occurred to her that our inquiries were rather pointed. ‘‘Oh, no,’’ replied my companion, rising; ‘‘I was a bit tired, and thought I’d rest my feet before starting out again. I’ll thank you for a glass of water, Mrs. Sullivan. So you won’t undertake the shirts?’’ ‘‘If I thought I could do the button-holes—’’ ‘‘Perhaps your niece could do them on her next visit, if you wanted the job,’’ I suggested. ‘‘Why, so she could! and would be glad 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?’’ ‘‘I’ll send it round when I get it ready. I suppose your niece intends to visit you next Saturday?’’ ‘‘Well, ra’ly, I can’t say. It’s too expensive 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, I’ll warrant?’’ We responded that nothing had been learned, and descending to the street, it was arranged, as we walked 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 discrepancy between her actual arrival in town and her appearance at her aunt’s. Either the woman had purposely deceived us, or her niece had not gone home for a good many hours after landing at Blankville. I went with him to the depot, where we made a few inquiries which convinced us that she had arrived on Saturday morning, and sat an hour or two in the ladies’ room, and then gone away up town. There was sufficient to justify our looking further. I took from my own pocket means to defray the expenses of the officer as well as to interest the New York detective, adding that liberal rewards were about to be offered, and waited until I 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 interment, 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 service of the mourners. My usual prescription for mental ailments was a long and vigorous walk; today I felt as if I could breathe only in the wide sunshine, so cramped and chilled were my spirits. The summer residence of the Morelands 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 commanded one of the loveliest views of the Hudson. 32

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‘‘A spirit in my feet Led 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 beautiful 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 extending down toward the southern gate, by which I entered, a grove of maples and elms glowed in the autumn sunshine; the lawn 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; chrysanthemums; some dahlias which had been covered from the frost; pansies lurking under their broad leaves. It had been the intention of the young couple to make this their permanent home after their marriage, going to the city only for a couple of the winter months. The very next week, I had heard, Eleanor expected 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 over that stately residence and thought of the prosperous future which had come to so awful a standstill. I gathered a handful of pansies—they were Eleanor’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 dispatched an officer to New York. She did not perceive me, and I had an opportunity of studying the face of the woman who had fallen under my suspicion, when she was unaware that my eye was upon it, and when her soul looked out of it, unvailed, in the security of solitude. The impression 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 her, photographed,

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as it were, upon it—every fold of the dark dress, which was some worsted substance, frayed, but neat; the black shawl, bordered, 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 rigidity 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, I 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 heavy. 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 I 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 movements had 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 I had mistaken my powers, or the eyes overbore them. When she did lift them, as a steamer came puffing 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 intensity of hers, she was moving rapidly away toward the western gate. ‘‘Miss Sullivan, you have forgotten 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. I hesitated what move to make next. I wished to address her—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 feelings public, if she were innocent of any aid or instigation of the crime which had been committed, yet there were circumstances which could hardly pass unchallenged. 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 34

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the window, and the other things which I had observed, were sufficient to justify inquiry. Yet, if I alarmed her prematurely I should have 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 me that you had gone to New York,’’ I said, stepping along beside 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 expected me to tell my business. This again did not look like the trepidation of guilt. ‘‘No. I came out for a walk. I suppose our thoughts have led us both in the same direction. This place will have an interest to many, hereafter.’’ ‘‘Interest! the interest of vulgar curiosity! 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 next instant her face subsided into that passionate stillness again. 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 have led her into her present unhappiness. That she was unhappy, if not sinful, it took but a glance to assure me. ‘‘So do I hate it. I do not like to have the grief of my friends subjected to cold and curious eyes.’’ ‘‘Yet, it is 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.’’ It 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 seemed 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 but 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 pushed at the gate which I still held. ‘‘Ah, don’t,’’ she said; ‘‘let me pass.’’ I opened it and she darted through, fleeing along the road which led out around the backward slope of the hill, like Io pursued by the stinging fly. Her path was away from the village, so that I hardly expected to see her again that day.

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Within two minutes the gardener’s wife came up the road to the gate. She had been down to visit the corpse of her young master; her eyes were red with weeping. ‘‘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 cry 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 all over to see her—I couldn’t speak to save me. 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 thinking. ‘Still waters run deep.’ They’re adreading the hour when they’ll have to remove the body from the house— they’re afraid her mind ’ll go.’’ ‘‘No, no,’’ I answered, inwardly shuddering; ‘‘Eleanor’s reason is too fine and powerful to be unstrung, even by a blow like this.’’ ‘‘Who was that went out the gate as I 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 summer-house, all alone, ’till the rain began to fall—I guess she got a good soaking going home. I didn’t think much about her; it was Saturday, and I thought likely she was taking a holiday, and there’s many people like 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?’’ ‘‘I do 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 family. I don’t know her at all, myself; I never spoke to her until just now. Did you get much acquainted with her, when she was in the house?’’ ‘‘I 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 knew it. She’s getting thinner; she had red spots on her cheeks, Saturday, that I didn’t like—looked consumptive.’’ ‘‘Did the family treat her with particular 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 going out for a drive, to insist upon Miss Sullivan’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 36

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of freedom, and the kind-hearted lady would laugh at her son, but do as he said. It was just like him. But I’d stake my everlasting futur’ that he never took any advantage of her feelings, if it’s that you’re thinking of, Mr. Redfield.’’ ‘‘So would I, Mrs. Scott. 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 frequents.’’ ‘‘I 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 young gentleman a good many people loved.’’ She put her handkerchief to her eyes in a fresh burst of tears. Wishing her good-morning, I turned toward the village, 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 homeward route, I went in. Mr. Argyll was there alone, his head leaning on his hand, his face anxious and worn, his brow contracted 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. ‘‘I 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 I received it, in my library desk, at home. I locked the desk, and have carried the key in my pocket. The desk has been locked, as usual, every time that I 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. I wanted some cash for expenses this afternoon, and going for it, the roll was gone.’’ ‘‘Haven’t you mislaid it?’’ ‘‘No. I have one drawer for my cash, and I placed it there. I remember it plainly enough. It has been stolen’’—and he sat down in his chair with a heavy sigh. ‘‘That money was for my poor Eleanor. She was to complete her wedding outfit this week, and the two thousand 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!’’

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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 probable. James must have been followed from the city by some professional thief, who saw him obtain the money, and kept an eye upon it, waiting for a suitable opportunity, until it was deposited in the desk. The 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.’’ ‘‘In which case, he would have returned, as the body remained undiscovered all night.’’ ‘‘It may be so. I am dizzy with thinking it over and over.’’ ‘‘Try and not think any more, dear sir,’’ I said, gently. ‘‘You are feverish and ill now. I am 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 possible, from the bank, and I will have investigations made as to the passengers of Wednesday on the train with James. Have you said any thing to him about your loss?’’ ‘‘I 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.’’

chapter v Mr. Burton, the Detective When 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 38

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to my boarding-house, where I had barely time to take some lunch in my room, while packing a small bag to be sent to the cars, before 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 believe 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 being seemed to pause, as a single, prolonged 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 I had 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 effect upon my companion, whose paleness passed away, and who began to experience a reaction after his depression of feeling. He talked to me incessantly upon trifling subjects which I do not now recall, and in that low, yet sharp voice which is most easily distinguished through the clatter of a moving train. The necessity for attending to him—for making answers to irrelevant questions, when my mind was preoccupied, annoyed me. My thoughts centered about the coffin, and its inmate, taking his last ride under circumstances 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 mysterious paths of the great eternity. I could not, for an instant, feel the least lightness of heart. My nature was too sympathetic; the currents of my young blood flowed too warmly, for me to feel otherwise than deeply affected by the catastrophe. My eyes shed inward tears at the sight of the parents, sitting in advance of us, their heads bowed beneath the stroke; and, oh! my heart shed tears of blood at thought of Eleanor, left behind us to the utter darkness of a night which had fallen while it was yet morning. Musing upon her, I wondered that her cousin James could throw off the

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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 exception 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 gracious and flattering. I had often wondered why his evident passion for Eleanor had not secured her interest in return, before 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 perceptions, 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 apprehension, painfully apparent. In my secret heart, as I listened to his light remarks, and perceived 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 wealthy cousin. At first he had been shocked, 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 calculating the results with regard to his own hopes and wishes. I turned from him with a feeling of aversion. After neglecting to reply to him until he was obliged to drop the onesided conversation, I recollected that I had not yet spoken to him in regard to his uncle’s loss; so I said to him quite suddenly, ‘‘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 came. ‘‘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 identified. It was taken from his desk, it appears.’’ ‘‘Yes; I wonder what will happen next.’’ ‘‘Ay! 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; else, like poor Henry, you might have fallen a victim to a blow in the dark. Mr. Argyll thinks you must have been followed from the city by some professional burglar.’’ ‘‘He thinks so?’’ he asked, while the shadow of a smile just showed a second in the mirror of his eyes; it was as if there was a smile in his heart, and a reflection from its invisible self fell athwart his eyes; but he turned them away immediately. 40

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‘‘It’s queer,’’ he resumed; ‘‘horribly queer; don’t you think so? I saw that money in the desk Friday evening. Uncle asked me 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 I had given them to him. It must have been abstracted Saturday or Sunday—it’s queer—confoundedly so! There must be some great villain lurking in our midst!’’—this last sentence he uttered with an 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. I had 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 on me rather suddenly. It never occurred to me that among the dozens upon whom vague and flying suspicions might alight, might be myself. ‘‘There is an awful mystery somewhere,’’ I stammered. ‘‘Humph! yes, there is. My uncle Argyll is just the man to be wronged by some one of his many friends and dependents. He is too confiding, too unsuspecting of others—as I have told him. He has been duped often— but this—this is too bad!’’ I looked up again, and sharply, to see what he meant. If he intended covertly to insinuate that I was open to imputation as one of the ‘‘friends or dependents’’ who could wrong a benefactor, I wished to understand him. A friend, I 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 is principally your fault; but I am friendly to you; and as a friend, I would suggest that you do not make yourself conspicuous in this affair. If you should put yourself forward at all, being so young, and having, apparently, so small an interest in the matter, you may bring unpleasant remark upon yourself. 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 perhaps show. Let the police do what they can with it—my advice to you is to keep in the background.’’ ‘‘Your course may be prudent, James,’’ was my reply; ‘‘I do not ask your approbation 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 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 window. During the rest of the ride we said little; his words had given me

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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 suspicion, mingled in with the perplexing whirl of the whole, until I almost began to doubt my own identity and that of others. A vision of Leesy Sullivan, whose wild footsteps might still be tracking hills and fields, hovered before me—and out of all this distraction, my thoughts settled upon Eleanor. I prayed God earnestly to be with her in this hour; either to strengthen her heart and brain to bear her affliction without falling to ruins beneath the weight, or to take her at once to Himself, where Henry awaited her in the mansions of their eternal home. 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 appointment to meet him in the evening at the Metropolitan, and took my place in the sad procession to the house of the Morelands. I was anxious to give notice of the robbery at the bank, and to ascertain if they could identify any of the money, especially the large bill, 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 also 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 lookout 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 abilities he had a high opinion; telling me to make free use of his name and influence, 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 dollars for the detection and conviction of the—the—murderer.’’ James was standing by us during the conversation; and I almost withdrew my verdict upon his selfishness, as I marked how he shrunk when the eye of the bereaved father rested upon him, and how vainly he endeavored to appear calm at the affecting spectacle of the gray-haired gentleman forcing his quivering lips to utter the word—‘‘murderer.’’ He trembled 42

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much more than myself, as each of us wrung Mr. Moreland’s hand, and departed down the steps. ‘‘It unmanned him,’’ he said, stopping a 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 consequences of that act, it would remain undone for ever. 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 philosophize before you, Richard, who have precociously earned that privilege of wisdom’’—with that disagreeable half-laugh 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 I felt his eye upon me. Certainly, there seemed no prospect of our friendship increasing. I would rather have dispensed with his company, 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 have as deep an interest as myself. Coming out of the avenue upon Broadway we took a stage, riding down as far as Grand street, when we got out and walked to the office of the detective-police. 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 over the boldness and success, the silence and suddenness 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 garish 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 necessary 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 opportunities 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 messenger after the chief. He also informed us that several of their best men had gone up to Blankville

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that afternoon to confer with the authorities there. The public welfare demanded, as well as the interest of private individuals, that the guilty should be ferreted out, if possible. The apparent impunity with which the crime had been committed was startling, making every one feel it a personal matter to aid in discouraging any more such practices; 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 middle age, with a florid face and sandy hair. He was quietly dressed in the ordinary manner of the season, and with nothing to mark him from a thousand other men of similar appearance, unless it was the expression of his small, blue-gray eyes, whose glance, when I happened to encounter it, seemed not to be looking at me 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 chief. Desiring to secure the services of the particular detective whom Mr. Moreland had recommended, I asked the subordinate 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, called up by some passing vision of his last visit to the theater. ‘‘Then there is no Mr. Burton belongs to your force?’’ ‘‘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.’’ All this time the stranger by the window sat motionless, absorbed in looking upon the throng of persons and vehicles in the street beneath; and now I, having nothing else to do, regarded him. I felt a magnetism emanate from him, as from a manufactory of vital forces; I felt, instinctively, 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. ‘‘Ah! 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 remember, in tracking some burglars who had entered his banking-house. Poor young Moreland! I’ve seen him often! Shocking 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 44

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is just here, fortunately,’’ and he beckoned to the very stranger sitting in the window, who had overheard the inquiries made for him without the slightest demonstration that such a being had any existence as far as he was concerned, and who now slowly arose, and approached us. We four went into an inner room, where we were introduced to each other, and drawing up our chairs in a close circle, 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. He had no doubt, he said, that the two crimes were connected, and it would be strange, indeed, if nothing could be discovered relating to either of them. He hoped that the lesser crime would be the means of betraying the greater. 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 dollar bill. Mr. Burton said very little, beyond asking 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, for the life of me, tell whether James was conscious of those blue-gray eyes; if he was, they did not much disturb him; he made his statements in a calm and lucid manner, gazing into Mr. Burton’s face with a clear and open look. After a while, the latter began to grow uneasy; powerful as was his physical and mental frame, I saw a trembling of both; he forced himself to remain quiet in his chair—but to 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 concentrated 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 window, if there had been no other way; it struck me that it would have been unbearable to any accusing conscience; but my own mind being burdened with no weightier 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 noticed, with interest, the silent change going on in the detective. More and more like a lion about to spring, he grew; but whether his prey was near at hand and visible, or far away and visible only to his mental gaze, I could not tell. I fairly jumped, when he at last rose quickly to his feet; I 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, saying 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. I will walk to his hotel with

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Mr. Redfield, and you can meet us there at any hour you choose to appoint.’’ ‘‘It 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 quartette parted, half going up and half going down town. On our way to the hotel we fell into an easy conversation on topics entirely removed 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 making me express myself freely; though if so, 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 instant; but I was constantly surprised at the character of the man whose acquaintance 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 member 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 I felt no hesitation in unvailing to him the domestic hearth of Mr. Argyll, whenever the habits or circumstances of the family were consulted in their bearing upon the mystery. And when he said to me, fixing his eye upon me, but speaking gently. ‘‘You, too, loved the young lady,’’—I neither blushed nor grew angry. That penetrating eye had read the 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 welcome to it. ‘‘Be it so,’’ I said; ‘‘that is with myself, and no one else.’’ ‘‘There are others who love her,’’ he continued, ‘‘but there is a difference in the quality of love. There is that which sanctifies, and something, called by the same name, which is an excuse for infinite perfidy. 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 strongest; 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 danger of fixing a ruinous suspicion upon a person who might be perfectly innocent; yet that circumstances were such as to demand investigation, which I was sure he was the person to carry on. I then gave him a careful account of every thing I had seen or learned about the sewing-girl. He 46

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agreed with me that she ought to be placed under secret surveillance. I told him that the officer from Blankville would be in after tea, when we could consult together and dispose of the discussion 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 employed, and her character stood high at both places. She had been represented to him as a ‘‘strictly proper’’ person, very reserved, in poor health, with a sad appearance, and an excellent workwoman—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. It seemed as if the Fates were in favor 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 lookout for them, wherever offered.’’ ‘‘But even should the robber be discovered, there is no proof that it would establish any connection with the murder. 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 disaster, a powdermill 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.’’ ‘‘I, too,’’ said Mr. Burton, ‘‘have remarked 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 superstitious; perhaps he saw the eyes of Henry Moreland looking down at him from the starry hights; he twitched the curtains together with a shiver, and came back to us. ‘‘It 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-house—perhaps some trusted and responsible person—was detected by Henry, in making false entries, or

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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.’’ ‘‘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 accounted for. They were all in the city,’’ said Mr. Burton, with precision. Shortly after, the party separated for the night. An urgent invitation came 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 mourning with the business which we wished to press forward, and returned an answer to that effect. It was nearly ten o’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. It was the work of a few minutes for me to write one 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 as many journals, and ourselves hurried off with the others. I went to one establishment and my companion to another, in order to hasten proceedings, knowing that it was doubtful if we could get them inserted at that late hour. Having succeeded to my satisfaction 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, returning. As I neared the building to which he had gone, and which was brilliantly 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 opposite 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 him in a walk. He went, however, at so rapid a pace, that I still remained behind. Our course lay through Nassau and Fulton 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 I had a vexatious delay in finding small change, so that I got through just in time to see the boat move off, James himself having to take a flying leap to reach it after it was under way. At that hour there was a boat only every fifteen minutes; of course I gave 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 I gazed out on 48

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baffled the dark waters, listening to their incessant moaning about the piers, and watching where they glimmered beneath the lights of the opposite 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 I had ever felt in my life, fell upon me—sadness too deep for any expression. 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, as far as the soul of Nature goes, was in unison with mine; but in humanity lies a still deeper deep, rises a higher hight. I was as much alone as if nearly a million fellow-creatures were not so encircling 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 I thought of a distant chamber, where a girl, who yesterday was as full of love and beauty as a morning rose is full

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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, breathing sighs of endless misery. I thought of the funeral procession which to-morrow, at noon, should come by this road and travel these waters, to that garden of repose, whose white tombstones I knew, although I could not see them, gleamed now under the ‘‘cold light of stars.’’ Thus I sat, wrapped in musings, until a policeman, who, it 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 to my feet, as the return boat came into her slip, drifting up and bumping sullenly against the end of the bridge where my legs had been dangling. I waited until, among the not numerous passengers, I perceived James hurrying by, when I slipped my hand into his arm quietly, saying, ‘‘You led me quite a race—what in the world have you been across to Brooklyn for?’’ He jumped at my voice and touch; then 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 me know it.’’ ‘‘I beg your pardon,’’ I answered, withdrawing from his arm, ‘‘I walked over to the H office to meet you, and saw you walk off in this direction. I had no particular object in following you, and perhaps ought not to have done it.’’ ‘‘I spoke too hastily,’’ he said, almost immediately. ‘‘Forget it, Richard. You pounced upon me so unexpectedly, you gave me a nervous shock— irritated my combativeness, I suppose. I thought, of course, you had returned to the hotel, and feeling too restless to go back to my little bedroom, there, I determined to try the effect of a ride across the river. The bracing air has 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. I will not pain the heart of my reader by forcing him to be one of the mournful procession which followed Henry Moreland to 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 under the sunlight of heaven. To give that guilty 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 trying scene had ‘‘used him up;’’ and then, his uncle would surely want one of us to assist him at 50

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home. To this I 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 village as had come down to attend the funeral, had started for home in the afternoon 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 already felt in him. He had chosen his present occupation out of a consciousness of his fitness for it. He was in independent circumstances, and accepted no salary for what was with him a labor of love; seldom taking any of the liberal sums pressed upon him by grateful parties who had benefited by his skill, except 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-merchant, universally esteemed for integrity, and carrying about him that personal influence which men of strong will and unusual discrimination exercise over those with whom they come in contact. But that he had any extraordinary powers, of the kind which had since been developed, he 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 and 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 barely 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 mercantile career. His mind was bent on a new business, which unfitted him for any other. The fire was supposed to be purely accidental; the insurance companies, usually 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 potentates, against whom to breathe a breath of slander, was to overwhelm the audacious 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 allegation against them upon such unsubstantial basis as this. 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—

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for two lives, that of a porter and a clerk, had been lost in the burning buildings—he threatened them with exposure, unless they made good to him the loss which he had sustained through their villainy. 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 had got an inside view of life, in the marts, on exchange, in the halls of justice, and in the high and low places where men do congregate. It was as if, with the thread in his hand, which he had picked out, he unraveled 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 successful a hunter on the paths of the guilty, the more marvelous became their development. He was like an Indian 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. He attached 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 police revealed to me, 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 came to my room, was, ‘‘I have ascertained that our sewing-girl has one visitor, who is a constant one. There 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 Blankville. On such occasions it is brought in the 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 landlady, very much attached to her poor cousin, and could not cast off the little one for her sake.’’ 52

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‘‘All of which may be true—’’ ‘‘Or false—as the case may turn.’’ ‘‘It 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 was involved in it, we will only know when we find out. Whoever the child’s mother may have been, it seems 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. I have made arrangements by which I shall be informed if she appears at any of her former haunts, or at 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 residence, the lawn, the library from which the money was abstracted, etc. A clear picture of these, carried in my mind, may be of use to me in unexpected ways. If we hear nothing of her in the village, I will return to the city, and await her reappearance here, which will be sure to occur 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 the whole of this melancholy business before 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 shoulder as we walked up the hill from the depot; but my companion was guilty of no such weakness. He kept as sharp a lookout as the light of a setting moon would permit, but

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it was only with a view to making himself familiar with the premises. 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. A rush of emotion oppressed 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 anxiety possessed me to hear of Eleanor, no report of her mental or physical condition having reached me since that piercing 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 mansion; not a breath stirred the crisp foliage. I heard a leaf, which loosened itself and rustled downward to the sod. ‘‘It is a fine old place,’’ remarked my companion, pausing because my own steps had come to a standstill. I could 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 detectiveofficer. 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. There had been an implied understanding, although it had never been definitely agreed upon, that I was to become a partner in the law with my teacher, when I 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 doubted, for he had said as much many times. This prospect was an unusually fair one for so young a person as myself; it had urged me to patient study, to eager, ambitious effort. For I rightly deemed that a respect for my habits of mental application 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 favorably upon one who had, as it were, supplanted him. Instead of seeing that the fault lay in himself, and applying the remedy, he pursued the false course of considering 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, 54

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and that, if he ever became a partner, it would be as a 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 really intended to take the son of his old friend into the firm, instead of his nephew, it was simply on the prudent principles of business. I was to pass my examination on the first of November; this remark, then, which he made, as I observed how weary and unwell 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 overworked, that you do not tell me? I should have been glad to help you. But it seems I am of no possible account nowadays.’’ 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 thunderous when he perceived Mr. Burton; although, if I had not been looking straight in his eyes, I should not have noticed it, for it passed instantly, and he stepped forward 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 transpire, 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, my heart bleeds for my friends, Mr. Burton.’’ ‘‘And your friends’ hearts bleed for you.’’ Mr. Burton had a peculiar voice, searching, though not loud; I was talking with Mr. Argyll, and yet I heard this reply without listening for it; I did not comprehend it, and indeed, I let it in at one ear and out at the other, for I was asking about Eleanor. ‘‘She is better than we hoped for,’’ said the father, wiping the mist from his eyes which gathered at the mention of her name, ‘‘but, alas, Richard, that is not saying much. My girl never will 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

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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 weakness of the system after intense suffering, the same as if she had endured great physical pain. He says she will rally presently.’’ ‘‘If I could take her burden upon myself, I 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 hopeless 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 again noticed what was passing between the other two, James was telling Mr. Burton, with great animation, of some information which had been 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 railroad, 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 description 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 prepossessing 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 afterward read them in the sworn testimony—‘‘I noticed a person who sat on the opposite side of the car, facing us. His forehead 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 attempts to be unconcerned, I was continually compelled to look across at the individual of whose serpentgaze the young gentleman himself appeared totally unconscious. 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 56

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can not prove it—but my conviction is unalterable. I only wish, now, that I had yielded to my impulse to shake my unknown neighbor, and say to him—‘See! there is an enemy! beware of him!’ There was nothing but the man’s look to justify such a proceeding, and of course I curbed my feelings. ‘‘The man was a common-looking person, 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 complexion sallow. I noticed a scar across the back of the hand which he held over his eyes, as if it had sometime been cut across with a knife; also, that he had a 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 account, and the thousand conjectures to which it gave rise. ‘‘It 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 description was a resident of the village, and no one could be heard 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 evidence, yet,’’ said Mr. Argyll. ‘‘The New York police, not being able to do any thing further here, have gone home,’’ continued James. ‘‘If such a villain lurks in New York, he will be found. That scar on the hand is 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 imply, 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. ‘‘I would like to go down to the depot, and along the docks for an hour,’’ continued Mr. Burton, ‘‘if there’s nothing else to be done immediately.’’ James politely insisted upon accompanying us. ‘‘What the deuce did you bring another of those detectives up here for?’’ he asked me, sotto voce, at the first opportunity. ‘‘We’ve had a surfeit of

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them—they’re regular bores! and this Burroughs or Burton, 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.’’ ‘‘I 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 accustomed moorings, and, in the morning, found that the chain, which was old and rusty, had parted one of its links, probably by the extreme violence 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 chisel might have been used. ‘‘I see my boy, Billy, a-tinkerin’ with it,’’ said the fisherman. ‘‘Like as not he’s been a-usin’ 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 expressions 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 wonderful 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 solution he was so certain to announce, sooner or later, he grew absorbed and taciturn. Mr. Argyll made us go home with him to dinner. I knew that I 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 for my poor efforts. The dear child had changed some, like the rest of us. She could not look like any thing but the rosebud which she was—a fresh and pure young creature of sixteen summers—a rosebud 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. It was touching to see one naturally so joyous, subdued by the shadow which had fallen over 58

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the house. Neither of us could say much; our lips trembled when we spoke her name; so, after a moment’s holding my hand, while the tears began to flow fast, Mary unclasped my fingers, and went up stairs. I saw Mr. Burton hide those blue-gray eyes of his in his handkerchief; my respect for him deepened 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 impression of it on his mind, examined the lock of the desk, and noticed the arrangement 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 after; 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 I had 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. I picked it up. It was a woman’s handkerchief, of fine 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 the kitchen grass-plot, where the linen is put out to dry.’’ Then I examined the discolored article more closely, and, involved in the graceful twinings of the spray of flowers, I saw worked the initials— ‘‘L. S.’’ ‘‘Leesy Sullivan,’’ said my companion, taking it from my hand.

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‘‘It seems too dainty an article for her ownership,’’ I said, at last, for, at first, I 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, I 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 her pocket as she passed, and the rain has set its mark upon it, to be used as a testimony against her.’’ ‘‘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 accomplice. A woman is a safer accomplice for a man than one of his own sex—and vice versa.’’ The face which I had seen, in its despair, 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,’’ I 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 returned 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 visitors of the family to whom the handkerchief might belong by virtue of its inscription. 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 James 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 occasions, 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 employed 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 person, 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 60

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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 excitement, 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 I tuk a bottle of the blue for the clothes. It’s a poor mimiry I have, sure, since I came across the say. Afore that I could recollect beyond any thing, and the praste used to praise my rading. I think it was the tossin’ an’ rollin’ ov the ship upsot my brain. It was Saturday, it wur, and oh, Lordy, it is setting me all of 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 says I, there’s vagabonds around sure, now, I knew by the dog, and I wint and looked out, and sure as me name’s Norah, there was an old lame man wid a stick a-pretending 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 I druv him off immajetly— and that, I think, was Saturday two weeks 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 any thin’ 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’ I’ve woke up scr’aming two nights now—och hone! and if I’d seed any thing, I’d a told it long afore, which I wish I had, seein’ you’ve 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 she had been aching to express, without the opportunity, she threw her apron over her head, and sobbed after the manner 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, putting up with the tedious circumlocution, in the hope of some kernel of wheat in the bushel of chaff. After a deluge of tears and interjections, Maggie did finally come out with a statement which arrested the attention of her listeners. ‘‘I’ve never seen none gawking about as didn’t belong here—not a living sowl. 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

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funeral, and it frightened us so, we niver slept a wink till morning. 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 the 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—it’ll make your blood run cold to think of sich things in a Christian family.’’ Jim was summoned. His story, weeded 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. As he went out the back gate, he stopped a minute 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 baywindow. It had the appearance of a woman; its face was white, its hair hung down on its shoulders; it stood quite still 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 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 next day, when the bad news came, 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 assurance that it probably would not come again, since its mission had been accomplished, and a caution not to make the girls in the kitchen too nervous about it, we dismissed him.

chapter vii 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 fairest flower it had blighted. People no longer looked over their shoulders as they walked; the story now only served to enliven the history of the little place, when it was told to a stranger. 62

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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 Wednesday 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, unavailing exertions. The time for my examination came, which could not be unsuccessful, I had so long been thoroughly prepared, but I had lost my keen interest in this era of my life, while my ambition grew torpid. To excel in my profession had become, for the time, quite the secondary object of my life; my brain grew feverish with the harassment of restless projects—the recoil of thwarted ideas. There was not one in the family group (always excepting that unseen and cloistered sufferer) who betrayed the wear-and-tear of our trouble so much as I. James remarked once that I was improved by losing some of my boyish ruddiness—I was ‘‘toning down,’’ he said. On another occasion, with that Mephistophiles smile of his, he observed that it must be that I was after the handsome rewards—the sum-total 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 naturally satirical, and he could not always curb his inclination to be so at my expense. 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 had recovered from her illness, so as to be about her room, but had not yet joined the family at meals. I went frequently 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 mansion, with the Grecian portico, whose massive pillars were almost reflected in the waters of Seneca lake, so close to the shore did it stand—and where my mother still resided, 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 apartments; while Mary, gay young creature, troubled and grieved as she was, could not stay always in the shadow. At her age, the budding blooms of womanhood require sunshine. She was lonely, and when she left her sister to the solitude which 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 aloud, through the lengthening evenings; at others to while away the time with a game of chess. The piano was aban-

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doned out of respect for the mourner in the chamber above. Carols would rise to Mary’s lips, as they rise from a lark at sunrise, but she always broke them off, drowning them in sighs. Her elastic spirit constantly asserted itself, while the tender sympathy 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 throat which often prevented me from speaking, when I ought, perhaps, to be uttering words of help or comfort. James was always 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 or 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 so memorable; but the other look I did not seek to explain. There had been a light fall of snow. It seemed as if winter had come in November. But in a few hours this aspect vanished; the snow melted like a dream; the zenith was a deep, molten blue, transfused with the pale sunshine, which is only seen in Indian-summer; a tender mist circled the horizon with a zone of purple. I could not stay in the office that afternoon, so infinitely sad, so infinitely lovely. I put aside the law-papers which I had been arranging for a case in which I was first to appear before a jury and make my maiden argument. The air, soft as that of summer and scented with the indescribable perfume of perishing leaves, came to me through the open window, with a message calling me abroad; I took up my hat, stepped out upon the pavement, and wandering along the avenue in the direction 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 me and 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 autumn days, haunting one with ineffable joy and sadness— what is the name of all this varying demonstration of beauty, but love? I walked beneath the trees, slowly, my feet nestling among the thicklystrewn leaves, and pressing a faint aroma from the moist earth. To and fro for a 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, extending around and behind the flower-garden, was 64

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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’s. Hither 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, rolling in its blue splendor across the exquisite landscape. 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 slipping away from the point of my observation. 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 arose 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. I started to perceive that the sun had set. A band of orange belted the west. As the sun dropped behind the hills the moon came up in the east. It seemed as if her silver light frosted what it touched; the air grew sharp; a thin, white cloud spread itself over the river. I had sat there long enough, and I was forcing myself to a consciousness of the fact, when I saw one coming through the flower-garden and approaching the summer-house. My 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 I had seen her, that last time but one, glowing and flushing in triumphant beauty, attired with the most 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 flowerbeds, 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 I 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 resurrect itself in the months of another spring—while for her there was no spring on this side of the grave. Slowly she threaded her way, with bent gaze, through the garden, out upon the hillside, 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 encircled the horizon with that quiet,

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beamless look, that she perceived me. I rose to my feet, my expression only doing reverence to her sorrow, for I had 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. Be careful of yourself—is it not too chilly for you to be sitting here at this hour?’’ I pressed her hand, and turned away, vainly endeavoring to command my voice. I had changed!—but it was like Eleanor 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 intruding 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 thought some of coming down-stairs a little while this evening. I want to thank you.’’ The words were just whispered, and she turned immediately and looked away at the river. I understood 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 expired, but she did not wish to darken the hearthstone any more than was unavoidable. She sunk down upon the seat I had vacated, remaining motionless, looking 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 confess it! When manhood is fresh and unsullied, 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 have hardened it. I could still remember when I had kissed my mother, and wept my boyish troubles well upon her breast. I should have been harder than the nether millstone, had I not wept tears with Eleanor then. I mastered myself in order to assist her to regain 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 already looking for Eleanor.

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Under the full light of the hall-lamp we encountered James. It was his first meeting with his cousin as well as mine. He gave her a quick, penetrating look, held out his hand, his lips moved as if striving to form a greeting. It was evident that the change was greater than he expected; he dropped his hand, before her fingers had touched it, and rushing past us through the open door, he closed it behind him, remaining out until long after tea. 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, drinking it hastily, as if to get rid of it. ‘‘I 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 declared she dreaded, clouded his face again. His countenance was most variable; nothing could excel it in glitter and brilliant color 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 now and here—it is consecrated to that meeting with the object of my sorrow and adoration, and I will not prolong it with the details of other events.

chapter viii The Haunted Grave When 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, and, 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 his name. 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. ‘‘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 cun68

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ning 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 now I know no more of her whereabouts than I did before. There! You must 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 moment we intruded the infant into the conversation, she flew into a rage, asked if ‘‘we’d come there to insult a respectable widdy, as wasn’t responsible for what others did?’’ and wouldn’t be coaxed or 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 summon her into court and compel her to answer, at that time, we were compelled to ‘‘let her alone.’’ One thing, however, became apparent at the interview— that there was shame or blame, or at least a family quarrel, 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 still a matter of some doubt. He had spent over a week searching for Leesy Sullivan, in the vicinity of Blankville, at every intermediate station between that and New York, and throughout the city itself, assisted by scores of detectives, who all of them had her photograph, taken from a likeness which Mr. Burton had found in her deserted room at her boarding-place. This picture must have been taken more than a year previous, as it looked younger and happier; the face was soft and round, the eyes melting 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 Moreland 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

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more to haunt the piazza or the summer-house. Finally, Mr. Burton had given over active measures, 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 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 reappearance would be to apparently relinquish all pursuit. He had a person hired to watch the premises of the nurse constantly; a person who took a room next to hers in the tenement-house where she resided, apparently employed in knitting children’s fancy woolen garments, but really for the purpose of giving immediate notification should the guardian of the infant appear upon the scene. In the mean time he was kept informed of the sentiments of the nurse, who had avowed her intention of throwing the babe 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 to the orphan-asylum, or any other such place, she would take it to her own room, and 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 better streets. Mr. Burton had seen little Nora several times; he thought she resembled Miss Sullivan, though not strikingly. She had the same eyes, dark and bright. Two days before Mr. Burton telegraphed 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 afternoon 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 together, the door opened, a young woman came in, caught the child to her breast, kissed it, and cried. ‘‘An-nee—annee,’’ lisped the baby—and Mrs. Barber, slipping out, with the excuse that she would go for the nurse, who was at a neighbor’s, jumped into a car, 70

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and rode up to Twenty-third street. In half an hour Mr. Burton was at the tenement-house; the nurse had not yet returned from market, and the bird had flown, carrying the baby with her. He was sufficiently annoyed at this dénoûement. 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 some money for mother; there was, lying 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 offices, 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,’’ he added, ‘‘Miss Sullivan is not a woman of that stamp. If she has committed a crime, she has done it in a moment of passion, and remorse will kill her, though the vengeance of the law should never overtake her. But she is subtle and elusive. It is not reason that makes her cunning, but feeling. With man it would be reason; and as I could follow the course of his argument, whichever path it took, I should soon overtake it. But a woman, working from a passion, 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 conversation with that girl. And I will have it, 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 Henry Moreland was given by a professional murderer, a man, without conscience 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 passion, 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 happiness she was about to destroy, to pay some villain to commit the murder?’’ ‘‘It looks like it,’’ he answered, his eye dropping evasively.

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I felt that I was not fully in the detective’s confidence; there was something working powerfully in his mind, to which he gave me no clue; but I had so much faith in him that I was not offended by his reticence. Anxious as I was, eager, curious—if it suits to call such a devouring 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 morning being followed by another balmy and sunlit day. Mr. Burton rung for lunch 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 being dismissed, my host made a proposition which had evidently been on his mind all the morning. I was already so familiar with his personal 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 she studied at all, by a day-governess. I had never seen this daughter—Lenore, he called her—but I could guess, without particular shrewdness, that his heart was wrapped up in her. He could not mention her name without a glow coming into his face; her frail health appeared to be the anxiety of his life. I could hear her, now, taking a singing-lesson in a distant apartment, and as her pure voice rose clear and high, mounting and mounting with airy steps the difficult scale, I 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, ‘‘I sent for you to-day, more particularly 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. I 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 faculty to assist me in my more important labors; but I 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 only need to caution me. I would sooner drop a year out of my shortening 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 72

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not wonder if I am foolish about my Lenore. 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 labyrinths than those of the fair one’s bower. And I tell you, solemnly, that if, by so doing, she could point out pots of gold, or the secrets of diamond mines, I would not risk her slightest welfare, by again exhausting her recruiting energies. Nevertheless, so deeply am I interested in the tragedy to which you have called my attention—so certain am I that I am on the eve of the solution of the mystery—and such an act of justice and righteousness do I deem it that it should be exposed in its naked truth before those who have suffered from the crime—that I have resolved to place Lenore once more in the clairvoyant state, for the purpose of ascertaining the hiding-place of Leesy Sullivan, and I have sent for you to witness the result.’’ This announcement took away the remnant 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 perfect than I could have 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, fair, with a flush as of sunset-light on the cheeks—too transparent for perfect health, showing the wandering 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 listless 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 impression 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.

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An expression of unwillingness just crossed her face; but she smiled, instantly, looking up at him with the faith of affection which would have placed her life in his keeping, and said, ‘‘Yes, papa,’’ in assent. He made a few passes over her; when I 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 tranquillity; the eyes were fast closed, but she appeared to ponder upon the picture which she held. ‘‘Do you see the person now?’’ ‘‘Yes, papa.’’ ‘‘In what kind of a place is she?’’ ‘‘She is in a small room; it has two windows. 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.’’ ‘‘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 I see plenty of ships, but there is some green land across the water, besides distant houses.’’ ‘‘It 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 moments’ silence. ‘‘Go along until you come to a corner, and read me the name of the street.’’ ‘‘Court street,’’ she answered, presently. ‘‘It is in Brooklyn,’’ exclaimed the detective, 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 retraced her steps. ‘‘It is on the fourth floor, the first door to the left, as you reach the landing.’’ Lenore began to look weary and exhausted; the sweat broke out on her 74

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brow, and she panted as if fatigued with climbing 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 touches, followed by the same painful contortions of those beautiful features, and Lenore was herself again. But she was pale and languid; she drooped against her father’s breast, as he held her in his arms, the color faded from her cheeks, too listless to smile in answer to his caresses. Placing her on the sofa, he took from a nook in his secretary a bottle of old port, poured out a tiny glassful, and gave to her. The wine revived her almost instantly; the smiles and bloom came back, though she still seemed exceedingly weary. ‘‘She will be like a person exhausted by a long journey, or great labor, for several days,’’ said Mr. Burton, as I 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.’’ ‘‘I should think the application of electricity would restore some of the vitality which has been taken from her,’’ I suggested. ‘‘I shall try it this evening,’’ was his reply; ‘‘in the mean time, if we intend to benefit by the sacrifice of my little Lenore, let us lose no time. Something may occur to send the fugitive flying again. And now, my dear little girl, you must lie down a while this afternoon, and be careful of yourself. You shall dine with us to-night, if you are not too tired, and we shall bring you some flowers—a bouquet from old John’s conservatory, sure.’’ Committing his darling to the housekeeper’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 on Court street, far out toward the suburbs, which had the number indicated upon it. No one questioned our coming, it being a tenement-house, and we ascended a long succession of stairs, until we came to the fourth floor, 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 expecting to return. There was a fire covered down in the stove, and three or four potatoes in the 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 described, a few dishes in the cupboard, and some cooking utensils, which had been rented, probably, with the room.

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On the table were two things confirmatory of the occupants—a bowl, containing the remains 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 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. ‘‘I’m 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.’’ ‘‘If you do not care for a second person to watch with you, I believe I will go on to Greenwood. We are so near it, now, and I would like to visit poor Henry’s grave.’’ ‘‘I do not need you at all now; only, do not be absent too long. 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 voice to voice, I believe I can tame the antelope, or the lioness, whichever she turns out to be. I do not think I shall have to coerce her—not even if she is guilty. If she is guilty she will give herself up. I may even take her home to dinner with us,’’ he added, with a smile. ‘‘Don’t shudder, Mr. Redfield; we often dine in company with murderers—sometimes when we have only our friends and neighbors with us. I assure you I have often had that honor!’’ His grim humor was melancholy to me—but who could wonder that a man of Mr. Burton’s peculiar experience should be touched with cynicism? Besides, I felt 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 being himself observed, and making himself friendly with the busy little man behind the counter, of whom he had already purchased a pint of chestnuts. It would be as well that I should be out of the way. Miss Sullivan knew me, and might take alarm at some distant glimpse of me, while Mr. Burton’s person must be unknown to her, unless she had been the better detective of the two, and marked him when he was ignorant of her vicinity. 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 and 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 themselves we 76

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never behold. Knock as loud and long as we may at those marble doors, cry, entreat, implore, they hold themselves invisible. 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 that 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. With meditations like these, only far too solemn for words, I wandered through the lovely place, where, still, summer seemed to linger, as if loth to quit the graves she beautified. With Eleanor and Henry in my heart, I turned in the direction of the family burial-plot, wishing that Eleanor were with me on that glorious day, that she might first behold his grave under such gentle auspices of light, foliage and flowers—for I knew that she contemplated a pilgrimage to this spot, as soon as her strength would warrant the attempt. I approached the spot by a winding path; the soft plash of a fountain sounded 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 myself in the cemetery; a funeral train was coming through the gate as I passed in, and I met another within a few steps; but in the secluded path where I now walked I was alone. With the slow steps of one who meditates sad things, I approached Henry’s grave. Gliding away by another devious path, I saw a female figure. ‘‘It 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, having had, at the best, only an indistinct glimpse of the woman, and the momentary flutter of her garments as she passed beyond a group of tall shrubs and was lost to view. The next moment I knelt by the sod which covered that young and noble form. Do not think me extravagant in my emotions. 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 upon the grave. There were beautiful flowers fading upon it, which some friendly hand had laid

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there within a week 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 on my return. As I stooped to gather them, I 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 woman’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, I even recognized the tall, slender form, with the slight stoop of the shoulders, of which I had obtained but a half-glance. I hastily pursued the path she had taken; but my haste was behind hers by at least a quarter of an hour. I realized that I would only lose time by looking for her in those winding avenues, every one of which might be taking me from instead of toward the fugitives; so I turned back to the gate and questioned the keeper if he had seen a tall young woman with a little child pass out in the last halfhour. 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,’’ I 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 that age 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. Burton sat in the shop in Court street keeping watch, I sat at the gates of Greenwood; but no Leesy Sullivan came forth; and when the gates were closed for the night, I was obliged to go away disappointed. 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 I sought 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 feeling 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 belonged, but must haunt and hover on the edges of my trouble, fretting me to follow her, only to mock and elude. Before leaving the cemetery I offered two policemen a hundred dollars 78

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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 detectivepolice; and I left them, with another on guard at the gates, perambulating 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 returns. We have been led another wild-goose chase.’’ ‘‘I 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?’’ I told him, and he was quite downcast at the unlucky fortune which had sent me to the cemetery at that particular time. It was evident that she had 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 before long. I must go home to-night to see my Lenore; I promised her, and she will make herself sick sitting up.’’ ‘‘Go; and let me remain here. I will stay until it it is perfectly apparent that she does not expect to return.’’ ‘‘It 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. Au revoir.’’ I changed my mind about supping at the grocer’s as the twilight deepened into night. The dim light of the hall and staircase, part of them in total darkness, enabled me to steal up to the deserted room unperceived by any one of the other inmates of the great building. Here I put fresh coal on the fire, and by the faint glow which soon came from the open front of the stove, I found a chair, and placing it so that it would be in the shadow upon 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, admonished me that I had partaken of but a light lunch since an early and hasty breakfast; drawing forth one from the oven, I made a frugal meal upon it, and then ordered my soul to patience. I sat long in the twilight of the room; I could hear the bells of the city chiming the passing hours; the grocer and variety-storekeepers closing the shutters of their shops; the shuffling feet of men coming home, to such

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homes as they had in the dreary building, until nearly all the noises of the street and house died away. Gazing on the fire, I wondered where that strange woman was keeping that little 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 tombstones? 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, fatigued, distressed, panting under the weight of the innocent babe who slumbered on a guilty bosom, but driven still, on, on, by the lash of a dreadful secret? I made wild pictures in the sinking embers, 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 drowsiness by the gas from the open doors of the stove, the deep silence, and my own fatigue, after the varying journeys and excitements 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 thought 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 I felt the motion of the air swept by her wings and garments, led her out through the door, which closed with a slight noise. At the noise made by the closing door, I awoke. As I gathered my confused sense about me, I was not long in coming to the conclusion that I had, indeed, heard 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 expired. It was one o’clock. Vexed beyond words that I had slumbered, I rushed out into the empty passages, 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 direction. Yet I felt positive that Leesy Sullivan, creeping from her shelter, had returned to her room at that midnight hour, had found me there, sleeping, and had fled. Soon a car, which now ran only at intervals of half an hour, came along, and I gave up my watch for the night, mortified 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 was afraid of it. You see I have kept up for you; and now, since the night is so far spent, if you are not too worn-out, I wish you 80

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would come with me to a house not very far from here. I want to show you how some of the fast young men of New York spend the hours in which they ought to be in bed.’’ ‘‘I am wide awake, and full of curiosity; 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 again descended to the deserted street.

chapter ix The Spider and the Fly ‘‘Come, 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 residence, and standing on a fashionable street. ‘‘Why,’’ said I, inclined to draw back, as he ascended the steps, ‘‘you surely 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 chambers.’’ 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 significant 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 illuminated. 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. ‘‘Is Bagley still here?’’ asked my companion. ‘‘Yes, sir. In de 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. I thought I saw in that quiet smile a lurking ray of satisfaction—a gloating, as it were, over my prospective intimacy at this respectable house. He

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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 narrow and swift, and the rush of the whirlpool sounded up from the bottomless pit. We entered a suit of rooms in no manner 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 handkerchiefs, showed that they had been recently occupied. In these two the chandeliers were partially obscured, but the third room was still brilliantly illuminated. We walked toward it. Magnificent curtains 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 particularly noticed a marble bust of Shakespeare, 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, certainly; yet the four occupants were engrossed in a study more fascinating than that of any of the books by which they were surrounded. If Mephistophiles could have stepped from his binding of blue and gold, and made the acquaintance of the company, he would have been quite 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 up in the dread enchantment 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 antagonistic as to make real friendship between 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 82

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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 appeared as if the eyeballs had shrunken in the intensity of their gaze. Silently the cards were dealt and played. It was evidently the closing game, upon which much depended—how much, for James, I could only guess by the increasing pallor and absorption of his countenance. ‘‘I 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. Bagley never gets excited. He has ruined a dozen young men already.’’ The last card was thrown down; the two players arose simultaneously. ‘‘Well, Bagley,’’ said James, with a desperate laugh, ‘‘you will have to wait for the money until I—’’ ‘‘Marry the young lady,’’ said the other; ‘‘that is the agreement, I believe; but don’t consent to a long engagement.’’ ‘‘I shall find some means to pay these last two debts before that happy consummation, 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. Burton drew me away. I could hardly breathe when we got into the street, I was 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,’’ contracted in advance upon such security. If his strong hand had not silently withheld me, I do not know but I should have made a scene, which would have been as unwise as useless. I was thankful, 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 today,’’ I said. ‘‘He had 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 his hands, this evening, than to look up his friend Bagley.’’

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‘‘How do you know all this?’’ The detective half smiled, his piercing eyes fixed reflectively on the fire. ‘‘I should be poorly able to support my pretensions, if I could not keep the circle of my acquaintance under my observation. 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: ‘‘I 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, looking me through with those steelblue rays: ‘‘Would it trouble you to fancy yourself under surveillance?’’ ‘‘I never liked fetters, of any kind. I yield my choice of will and action to nobody. However, if any one finds satisfaction in playing the part of my shadow, I don’t know that I shall suffer any restraint upon that account.’’ ‘‘I don’t think it would disturb you seriously,’’ he said. ‘‘No one likes to be watched, Mr. Burton.’’ ‘‘We are all watched by the pure and penetrating eye of the All-seeing 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 inwardly wondered that he had the sternness to inflict disgrace and exposure upon the ‘‘respectable’’ guilty—which class of criminals he was almost exclusively employed 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 innocent, he had 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?’’ 84

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I asked this, going back to the surprise I had felt when he made the remark. ‘‘You will know soon enough.’’ It was useless for me to press the question, since he did not wish to be explicit. ‘‘I did not know,’’ I continued, ‘‘I never dreamed, that James had bad associates 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? I have no influence over him. He dislikes me, and would take the most brotherly remonstrance as an insult.’’ ‘‘I do not wish you, at present, to hint your discovery to him. As for your not suspecting his habits, those habits themselves 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 whom 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 been 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 earnest effort to save him before it is too late? Oh, Mr. Burton, you who are wise and experienced—tell me what to do.’’ ‘‘Why do you feel so much interest in him? You do not like him.’’ ‘‘I could not see the merest stranger go down toward destruction without stretching forth my hand. There is no great friendship between us, it is true; but James is nearly connected with the happiness 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. I 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 fascinating excitement, an anxiety which he carries about with him.’’ ‘‘You’re 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 foundation. It is weakness, wickedness in him to allow a passion which

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ought 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 matter, Mr. Redfield. We all see things according to the color of the spectacles we happen to wear. Then you think it is a 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 these reckless habits?’’ I was half-offended with him for mentioning her name in that manner; but I knew that mine was an extreme, if not a morbid sensitiveness, where she was concerned, and I swallowed my resentment, answering, ‘‘I fear it is.’’ ‘‘That may explain his disquiet to you—so be it.’’ Still Mr. Burton was keeping something back from me—always keeping something back. I did not feel at all sleepy. I was full of eager thought. I reviewed, with a lightning glance, all that he had ever said—all James had recently done or said—and, I swear, had it not been for the almost affectionate kindness of his general manner to me, and my belief in his 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 my veins, chilling me from head to foot. I looked him full in the eyes. If he had such a thought, I would pluck it out from behind that curtain of deception, and make him acknowledge it. If 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 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 calling 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, before whom more than any other person in this world, except my mother, I 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, gayly, ‘‘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 86

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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, remember, I bid you sleep, and let that clock in your brain run down. It is bad for the young to think too deeply. Goodmorning.’’ 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. 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 approached it yesterday—the dream which I had in the little chamber, awakening to the reality 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 bloated spider of Play weaves his glittering net, and sits on the watch for the gay and brilliant victims who flutter into its meshes. One feeling I had, connected with that discovery, which I had not betrayed to Mr. Burton—which I would not fairly acknowledge to my own soul—which I 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 sensation of relief—I might say of absolute gladness—a sensation entirely apart from my sorrow at finding him in such society, with such habits. Why? Ah, do not ask me; I can not tell you yet. Do not wrong me by 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 I 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 to another, whose wild face had been seen pressing toward the 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 because, to go back to the Friday before that fatal Saturday, I had been late in the parlors. The girls were singing and playing 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.

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‘‘Have you seen my opera-glass?’’ said he. ‘‘I left it on the desk here.’’ I answered him that I had not seen it, got my book, and returned to the music, thinking no more of that trifling occurrence—which I never more should have recalled had it not been for a peculiar expression in James’ face, which I was afterward 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 tempted to rob from his uncle more than the unfailing generosity of that good gentleman allowed 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, uncomfortable, and to be ashamed of? From the perplexity of all these things I sunk into a slight slumber, from which I was almost immediately aroused by the tinkling of the breakfastbell. I arose, dressed, and, upon descending to the library, was met by a servant, who ushered me at once into a cheerful apartment, where my host sat by the window, reading 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.’’ ‘‘I 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.’’ ‘‘I shall regret it, if she is really injured 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 earthly that we are punished by the fruitlessness of the results.’’ Mr. Burton laughed. ‘‘Perhaps. Punishment, however, seldom appears fitly meted out, this side the Stygian river. My Lenore will be better this afternoon; and I have strong hopes that, with the light now before us, we shall secure our prize. If that woman escapes me now, I shall set her down as a lunatic—only an insane person could have the consummate cunning to thwart me so long.’’ ‘‘There never was one less insane,’’ I said. ‘‘The impression which she 88

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made upon me was that of one in whom the emotions and intellect were both powerful. Her will and cunning are well-nigh a match for yours. You will have to look sharp.’’ ‘‘It is easier to pursue than to evade pursuit. She has much the most difficult strategy to conceive and execute. I tell you, Mr. Redfield, I’m bound to see that woman. I shall be so piqued at my failure, as to go into a decline, if I’m disappointed.’’ He seemed two-thirds in earnest, through his jocular assertion. We did not linger long over the breakfast, being anxious to get back to Brooklyn. After we had withdrawn from the table, he gave me the paper to look over, while he ran up a moment to say something to his daughter. While he was absent, the door-bell rung, and the servant showed a gentleman into the room where I 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 addressing 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 construed it that his restless conscience made him suspicious of his friends. ‘‘I came 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 hidden herself? Upon my word, I think if Eleanor knew the case in all its bearings, it might be useful in keeping her from quite killing herself of grief.’’ It was not 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 ear would be base enough to—to—’’ ‘‘Speak out,’’ smiled James, holding me with his softly glittering gaze. ‘‘I will say no more,’’ I ended, abruptly, as I heard Mr. Burton’s steps approaching. It was evident to me that there was to be no peace between us two. I watched my host while he greeted the new arrival; I wished to satisfy myself if there was a difference in his manner of treating us which would justify my belief that Mr. Burton was not playing a part with me. He was

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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, Mr. Burton laid this mask aside, that I flattered myself I was his friend and confidant. ‘‘Richard got the start of me,’’ observed James, after the compliments of the day were over; ‘‘I had not the least idea that he was in town. I came down yesterday to buy myself an overcoat—important business, wasn’t it?—and stayed over to the opera, last night being the opening 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.’’ ‘‘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 having it sifted, as you say. I assure you that if I have reason enough to warrant an indictment, I shall have one gotten out. 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 criminis, 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?’’ ‘‘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 questions? 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 at me. ‘‘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 me 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. 90

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‘‘I 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 understand it. ‘‘About seeing the girl, Redfield 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 permit of ceremony. Mr. Argyll, I must excuse myself. But if you’ll 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 Brooklyn was mentioned. He had no reason to suppose that any thing but 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 detective’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 results. 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; I 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 sing 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 had often wondered, when gazing at the swelling breast of some little triumphant bird, where was hidden the mechanism for all that marvelous 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 acknowledged a mutual attraction, which it seemed to give her father pleasure to observe. 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,

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which we had industriously unraveled and followed, either abruptly broken off, leaving us standing, perplexed and foolish, or else leading to persons and purposes most irrelevant. I should dislike to say how many pale, dark-eyed young women, with pretty babies, made our unexpected acquaintance during the following week—an acquaintance as brief as it was unsolicited 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 his intention. Such an arrangement would be a desirable one for me; I appreciated its many advantages; at the same time, I expected, by taking all the hard work upon myself, and by the constant devotion of such talent as I had to the interests of the firm, to repay, as far as possible, 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. I did well with it, and was complimented by several of Mr. Argyll’s fraternity upon my success in handling the case. Much to my surprise and mortification, Mr. Argyll’s congratulations were in constrained and studied terms. He had appeared to be 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 be laboring. Day by day the impression deepened 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, I had nothing to do but continue in his office, reading, reading away—not but that 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 afford 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 I could 92

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not go away, or offer to associate myself with others, hastily. I felt that he ought either to put in execution his implied promise, or to inform me that he had changed his plans, and I was free to try elsewhere. Can any invalid tell me why he feels a prescience 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 I explain the subtle influences which affected me, depressing me so deeply, and making me sensible of a change in that atmosphere of home which had brooded for me over the Argyll mansion. I had felt this 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 had 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 as 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, 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 quickly, and blush. I could not help believing, although I had no proof of it, that James was covertly 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 consciousness that he was undermining my footing in the house 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. I 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,

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for what I could not help, and for which I alone must suffer? Certainly not for my presumption, since I had not presumed. One dreadful idea preyed upon me. It was, that, in order to rid himself of me for ever, 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 Eleanor, but that I was looking forward to the future with hopes which mocked her present desolation. I can not describe the pain and humiliation 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 holidays were approaching. It was a season of gloom and mourning, mocked by the merry preparations of happier people. On the twenty-third day 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 with the thought of her bereavement. We moved about like people in dreams, silent and abstracted. The old housekeeper, when I met her on the stairs, was wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. Mr. Argyll, unquiet and pale, wandered from room to room. The office remained closed; 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 parlors. I plucked a white rose, holding it idly in my fingers. It was halfpast 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 swollen 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 everything as carefully as if poor Henry—were—down-stairs. Oh, Richard,’’ she cried, breaking down utterly in a burst of tears, and throwing herself into my 94

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arms, ‘‘it would break your heart to see her! It almost kills me, 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 so shaken. ‘‘I will help you. Don’t keep her waiting.’’ I took the scissors from her, cutting the fairest buds, the most perfect flowers, arranging them with care and skill. ‘‘I will 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 instead 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 contract. She has her prayer-book open at the marriage ceremony. She looks so sweet and calm, as beautiful as if she, too, were an angel with dear Henry—only so very white, so very solemn—oh, dear, I cannot bear it!’’ and again I had to compose her, wiping away her tears, before I 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 my eye. ‘‘I never thought Eleanor would be so whimsical. She ought to have some one to exert a healthy influence over her, or she will injure herself—she surely will.’’ ‘‘You ought to attempt to teach her a more practical view of life’s misfortunes. I’m afraid, however, you’ll find her a stupid pupil.’’ His eye flashed into mine a 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. I 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 recalling 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. I watched James pacing back and forth, with disquiet steps, through the frozen walks of the garden; presently he lit a cigar, and went out on 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

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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 remedy. If I remember aright, I had not been in the direction of Moreland villa since that singular meeting I had there with the person who had since played so conspicuous a part in our thoughts, if not in our eyes—except twice, when I had gone with Mr. Burton through the vicinity, in hopes of tracing her from the point of her disappearance—but to-day, I mechanically 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 steelblue tinged the ice in the river. How desolate the place looked, stripped of its summer garments! I leaned over the gate, while the night approached, making a picture of how the villa would have appeared at this hour, had that which had happened not happened. 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, after the wedding-breakfast, and to begin their housekeeping with a reception of their friends that same evening. Instead of warmth and light, gay laughter and music, rolling carriages and prancing horses, feasting, congratulations, love, beauty and happiness, there was silence and desertion, oh, how appalling! I could not bear the contrast between what was and what should have been. 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, leaning 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 made my way around to the gate at the back of the premises, and was soon knocking 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 summons. 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. ‘‘I beg 96

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your pardon for keeping you waiting. If I’d had any idea 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 sudden, 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 evenings, are you? I’ve mistaken your character, then; I’ve given you credit for being one of the strong-minded women.’’ ‘‘Wal, the truth is,’’ she said apologetically, ‘‘I never did used to be afraid of any thing, dead or alive. But, since young Mr. Henry was took away so sudden, I’ve been nervous and frightened like. I’ve never got over the shock. I’ll 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.’’ ‘‘I 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 ever was—but now, really, I’m ashamed to tell you, I dasn’t put my face out after dark.’’ ‘‘I should think it would be unpleasant, such a chronic state of fear,’’ and I half-smiled through my own melancholy, at the woman’s anxious face. ‘‘Onpleasant! I reckon it is mighty onpleasant. But there’s good reason for it.’’ ‘‘You just acknowledged that there was no reason—that it was fancy, Mrs. Scott.’’ ‘‘You’re 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 earnestness, and I had hitherto felt so much respect for the sturdy strength and integrity of her New England character, that my curiosity was somewhat aroused. I thought best to let her quiet herself, however, before leading her to converse about the subject most on her mind, as I 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? I suppose your husband had the plants housed long ago. Has he been making any

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changes with the grounds? I suppose not, since the family has 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?’’ ‘‘I’ve 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—I could not endure it. Have you been through the rooms lately?’’ This last question I asked without any other object than to keep up the conversation; she had started and looked curiously at me, when I casually used the figurative expression of ‘‘ghostly,’’ and now she shook her head. ‘‘I’ve not been through the house lately,’’ 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?’’ ‘‘Well, sir, to tell you the truth, it’s my opinion, and I know, laugh as you may—’’ ‘‘I 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 half, 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 cry. ‘‘What on earth was that?’’ I did indeed now laugh at her pale face, answering, in some vexation, ‘‘It was the snow breaking from the eaves, and slipping down against the window.’’ ‘‘Oh!’’ drawing a long breath. ‘‘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, ‘‘The house is haunted!’’ ‘‘Is that all?’’ I asked, feeling quite relieved, for her manner had startled me in spite of myself. ‘‘It’s enough!’’ was the significant response. ‘‘To tell you flatly, sir, John’s about concluded 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 permanent and excellent home like this, upon any such idle fancy, seems to me very unwise.’’ 98

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‘‘Goodness knows I’ve liked the place,’’ she cried, bursting into tears, ‘‘and that we don’t know what to turn to when we leave this. But I’m worn out with it—I can’t stand it no longer! You see how unsettled I am now.’’ Unsettled enough, certainly, from the usually composed and self-reliant woman in whose judgment I had placed considerable confidence. ‘‘You haven’t told me any thing to prove your assertion. I don’t believe in ghosts, I warn you; but I’d like to hear your reasons for thinking the villa has got one.’’ ‘‘I 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 won’t go in with me in broad daylight, to ’tend to the rooms. So I know he’s just as scairt as I am. 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?’’ ‘‘Plenty of things.’’ ‘‘Please mention a few. I’m a lawyer, you know, and demand the proofs.’’ ‘‘I’ve 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 till he see it. I’ve seen it seven or eight times myself.’’ ‘‘What was it like?’’ ‘‘Oh, Lordy, I’m sure I can’t tell exactly what it was like, when I never saw any thing of the kind before; I suppose it’s like them dead-lights that’s been seen over 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 particular place. It would make your flesh creep to see it, sir!’’ ‘‘I would like, above all things, to try it. Do you suppose, if we went out now, we should have the opportunity?’’ ‘‘It’s too early; leastways, I’ve never seen it so 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’.’’ ‘‘Is that all that 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, either—that is, not like any thing I ever heard. It seems to come mostly from the family-room, back o’ the library. John and me followed it up one evenin’. We went close up on the porch, and put our ears to the shutters. We heard it plain. We

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was so frightened, we’ve been glad not to go near the house again. I don’t feel as if I ever could.’’ ‘‘I think I know what it was,’’ I said, half inclined to laugh. ‘‘The doors or sashes have been left open in such a way as to make a draught. It is the wind, singing through the crevices of the deserted mansion. I, myself, have heard the wind make most unearthly music under such circumstances.’’ ‘‘ ’Twa’n’t wind at all,’’ said the gardener’s wife, in an offended tone. ‘‘Perhaps persons have obtained access to the house that have no business there. They may deface the furniture, or carry off articles of value. You really ought to look to it, Mrs. Scott; it’s part of your duty.’’ ‘‘There’s nobody got in—I’m certain of that. We’ve examined every door and window. There’s not the least sign of any human being about the premises. I 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 convinced that the imaginations of the pair, already awed and excited 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 that 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 wonder-seekers. So I said, ‘‘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 at 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 aired the house and looked 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 behind. I’ll do it, of course, and be thankful 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.’’ ‘‘I did tell him not to. He ain’t said nothin’ yet, I’m sure. It’s the last 100

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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?’’ ‘‘Yes; I’ll 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 Sullivan?’’ ‘‘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! I 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 by 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 hope of hearing or seeing the marvels of which the woman had spoken. There was no mystic light, blue 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 grave. My half-contemptuous pity of the state of mind into which the gardener’s 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 winter 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 I crept into bed, forgetting that I had gone without my tea. True to my promise, I went the next day to the villa. Mrs. Scott brought the 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 building. When you enter into it, you feel the influence 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 I had last crossed with him. 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 woman he loves 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 belonging to a closed dwelling. I hastened to throw open the shutters. When I unclosed 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

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to do it all, for my companion kept close to me, never stirring from my elbow. I 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 required attention. It was a loft, rough-floored, of comfortable hight, with a window 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 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 apples,’’ 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 house, it don’t freeze. It’s a good place for fruit. Hark! What was that?’’ ‘‘It 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 up there, it’ll starve.’’ I went up the ladder again, looking carefully about the attic, and calling coaxingly to the animal, but no cat showed itself, and I came down, saying it must have been in one of the lower rooms, and had probably run in since we opened the doors. ‘‘It sartingly sounded overhead,’’ persisted my companion, looking nervous, and keeping closer to me than ever. I had heard the noise, but would not have undertaken to say whether it came from above or below. ‘‘If 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 stealing covert glances into every corner, as we passed on, as if she expected, momently, to be confronted by some unwelcome apparition, there in the broad light of day. There were no traces of any intruders having made free with the house. The clothes and china closets were undisturbed, 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 swelled suddenly: reverently I opened the door, and stepped within, followed by 102

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the housekeeper. 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. ‘‘I told you the house was haunted,’’ she murmured, retreating backward toward the door. ‘‘What do you see?’’ I asked, glancing about for the cause of her alarm. ‘‘This room,’’ she gasped—‘‘it was his—and 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.’’ ‘‘I wish I thought so,’’ she said, solemnly. ‘‘It can not be. No other part of the house is in the least disturbed. No one has had admission to it— it is impossible; 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 you were when he was in the body? You loved him then; think you he will harm you now? 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.’’ ‘‘I 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 indentation 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 engravings; 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— Henry’s favorite colors. Two or three exquisite little pictures hung on the walls, and not the slightest toy occupied a niche in any place but spoke of the taste and refinement which had chosen it. From the two windows, the view of the river flowing amidst the hills, and the lovely 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.

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‘‘I came into this room the day of the funeral,’’ said the housekeeper, with a trembling voice, ‘‘and I sot all to rights, as if the master was coming back the next day. But little I thought he would really come! I spread that bed as smooth as paper; I put on fresh slips on the pillows, and sot ’em up without a dent or wrinkle in ’em; I put 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 gave him that, and it was a favorite with him; I’ve often seen him with it in his hand. You may shake your head, Mr. Redfield, but I know Henry’s been back here in his room.’’ ‘‘If 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 just see it’s been laid on, and that’s all. Besides, how did they get in? Can you tell me that? Through the keyhole, mebbe, and went out the same way!’’ Her voice was growing sharp and a little 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 if nothing weightier than a shadow had stirred the pillow, and moved about the room. As long as 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 with an exactness which would inevitably betray the slightest 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 opened at a page where a bookmark had been left—once I had seen Eleanor embroidering that very mark, I was sure. The first lines which caught my eye were these: ‘‘It 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 noonday sun; a chill struck through the open window; the wind which blew in, fluttering the page, could not have 104

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been more dreary had it blown across a churchyard. Shivering, I continued to read: ‘‘It 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 from the stars above, In flakes of darkness on her face Still bright with trusting love. Margret! Margret! He loved but only thee! That love is transient, too; The wild hawk’s bill doth dabble still In the mouth that vowed thee true. Will he open his dull eyes, When tears fall on his brow? Behold the death-worm in his heart Is a nearer thing than thou, Margret! Margret!’’

I know not if the housekeeper spoke to me. The clouds thickened about the sun; a dampness came in from the air. I held the book, staring at it, like one in a trance, and pondering the strange coincidence. Evidently, Henry had read these verses when he last opened the book—perhaps the 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’s tears? I seemed to hear the low laugh of the mocking fiend; a more than wintry sereness settled upon the landscape: ‘‘It trembled on the floor!’’

Yes! I was fast getting into the mood for believing any thing which Mrs. Scott might assert about the occupant of this chamber. Emotions which I had never 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 Christmas,’’ 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.’’ ‘‘It was that cat, I thought.’’

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‘‘Never 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 desolation. We had 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 as in 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 I 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 Johnny crying again! Well, Mr. Redfield, good-by. It’ll snow by the time you get home.’’ I 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 Little Guest and the Apparition I went to Mr. Argyll’s to the Christmas dinner. I was surprised to meet Eleanor in the family group; for, though she now frequently joined the home circle, I thought that on this holiday her own loss would press upon her with overwhelming weight. Instead of this, I saw a light in her countenance which it had never before worn; her face, totally devoid of smiles or color, yet shone with a serene and solemn luster, the most touching, 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 vows which she had taken upon herself with a spirit, she had derived a comfort; that she joyed in the consciousness that she was now and from henceforth evermore the bride of him who waited for her in the mansions of the Heavenly country. This life was transient—to be meekly borne a little while alone— 106

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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 sacredly 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 bear—nothing—nothing, except that indefinable air which a sensitive spirit feels more keenly than any 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 partnership, he would do it then. If he did not—I must look out for myself—I must go away. The Christmas dinner was the sumptuous 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 the general gloom. No guests were invited, of course. It was touching to see how the servants persisted in placing every imaginable delicacy before 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 continually 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 offered. 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 resignation as I did. In the course of the conversation around the table, which I did my best to make cheerful, I happened to speak of Lenore Burton. It was not the first time I had mentioned her, always with such enthusiasm as to excite the interest of the ladies. Mary asked me many questions about her, finally turning to her sister, and saying,

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‘‘You were always so fond of children, Eleanor. May I not 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 had 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 Eleanor more than any thing else possibly could, and would, at 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. Burton, 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 on her little journey, if his consent was given, and Miss Lenore herself approved the action. 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 unexpectedly 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; I would find her ready; and that, upon his return from Boston, he would come up to Blankville after her; closing his note with polite thanks for our friendly interest in his little girl, etc. Thus every thing was satisfactory. The third day after Christmas I went down, in the morning, to New York, returning in the afternoon 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 out 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. I was anxious to witness the impression she made, 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 alone, but her sweet expression, her modest self-possession amid her stranger-friends, enhancing its effect. Mr. Argyll brightened as I had 108

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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 Argyll’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 around with the black of Eleanor’s garments. Her traveling-dress was of crimson 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 replying archly to some teasing 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 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 radiance. So the child changed when he approached 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 courtesy 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. ‘‘If that pallid, stupid little creature is the marvelous child Richard promised us, 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. ‘‘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. ‘‘If you please,’’ she replied, with an air of relief. ‘‘You are not getting homesick so soon?’’ asked Mr. Argyll.

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‘‘I 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 better 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 question, and play chess,’’ said James, impatiently, as we discussed the visitor; ‘‘I’m tired of the subject.’’ ‘‘Wait until to-morrow, and you will become interested too,’’ she responded. ‘‘I like hearty little bread-and-butter girls,’’ said he, ‘‘but not such dieaway misses as that. She looks to me as if 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, the peculiarities of her temperament, it had astonished me, and aroused my curiosity. By the ill-humor 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 have a very easy conscience; 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 thinking 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 certain wrinkles in a young man’s face, overwritten in his by outer smiles, which could not hide the truth from a discerning eye. I asked 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. I was 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 confidence. Looking at him, thinking these things, with my 110

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thoughts more in my eyes than they ought to have been had I been 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 entirely disconcerted the game. ‘‘Well, how do you like my looks, Richard?’’ the defiant eyes glittering with a will which overpowered my own, smiling a deadly smile which threatened me. ‘‘How peevish you are, James! I believe you threw up the game because you saw I was 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, sometimes 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 defeat.’’ ‘‘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 misunderstand 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, of right, to himself. Worse than all, I felt that his treacherous nature was working 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 goodnight. My room at my boarding-house had a particularly cheerless air that evening; I felt lonely and embittered. My heart ached for sympathy. I 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 himself in one way or another. Lenore’s visit was a decided success—in the way, too, which I had hoped for. Her fine and spiritual nature was drawn toward Eleanor in a manner which made the latter love her, and grow to feel a consolation in the touch of the little hand, the unsought kiss, and the silent sympathy which brought the child to sit hours by her side, saying nothing, but looking with

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‘‘well, how do you like my look s, richard?’’

wonder and reverence at a sorrow too deep for her young heart to fathom. Lenore frolicked with Mr. Argyll, chatted 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 interest 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, of a Sabbath 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 her heart-chords. I was interested in watching two things—first, the attachment between Miss Argyll and Lenore; secondly, the persistent effort of James to overcome his first aversion, 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 indolence was a repugnance to business and study; it was no weakness of the will, for when he set his resolves upon an object, he usually accomplished it. I saw that he had resolved to 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 with him, in a fancy cutter, which he declared was only just large enough for those two, with chimes of silver bells and a spirited horse. I ought not to have felt grieved that Lenore, also, like the rest of the world, proved faithless to me. But I did. I was more hurt by 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 attractions and repulsions, the former always toward noble and true persons—the latter toward the unworthy. Now, however, 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 returning to inquire about the present condition 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 occasion. ‘‘If there ain’t at least one ghost in that house, then there never was such a thing, and there never will be—now! You’ve seen for yourself there ain’t a human 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.’’

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‘‘I 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 revelations?’’ ‘‘I’ve 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 mustered 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 bed ag’in— something 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 dreambook says; an’ to clap the climax, Mr. Redfield, there’s no use keepin’ it back—we’ve seen the ghost! ’’ I was now as interested as the woman could desire; she had stopped, mysteriously, after making this grave declaration, and sat looking me in the eyes. I returned 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 eyes, as if she saw the ghost in their distending pupils. I made up my mind that I was going to hear either something of ridiculous shadowyness magnified into an apparition, or something which would give some 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 balcony under the windows of Henry’s room?’’ ‘‘I know there is such a balcony.’’ ‘‘It 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 clapped 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?’’ ‘‘It was like a ghost, I tell you,’’ replied the housekeeper, stoutly. ‘‘I s’pose sperits are dressed purty much alike in the next world, whether they’re men or women. We read in the Bible of the white robes—and I’ve never heard of a spook that was dressed in 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 understand these things—it isn’t given 114

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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. It’s eyes was wide open, and it’s face as pale as a corpse’s. John and I will both make our affydavit to it, in court, if it’s necessary.’’ ‘‘Where did it go to when it disappeared?’’ ‘‘It 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, I wouldn’t swear that it was, or wasn’t. The fact is, I was so scaart the minit I saw it, I like to have dropped. John was for staying ‘to see if it wouldn’t come ag’in,’ but I wouldn’t let him, so we both cut and run.’’ ‘‘I 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 peculiar?’’ ‘‘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 think 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 I’ve rooted out the mystery from the beginning.’’ ‘‘Nor it can’t be explained,’’ cried the housekeeper, triumphantly. It worried her to think I was so skeptical when she had given such absolute 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 statements. 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 per-

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sons of the class to which these belonged, with their excited imaginations reacting upon each other, might easily persuade themselves 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, enhanced in their strange effect by the black, fantastic shadows which stretch away from them. Add to this, a 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 feverish 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 review 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 actually 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 unlawful purpose. I made up my mind to watch for this person, and entrap him. It occurred 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 gossip and credulity of the village. I was indignant at the heartlessness of the plan, and resolved, should I catch the perpetrator, to inflict such summary chastisement, 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 incredible 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 ears of friends, or every idle ragamuffin in the 116

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country make that hallowed 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 reluctantly, 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 my visit to the lower and upper floors. I searched from cellar to garret, while Mrs. Scott, with her pale-blue eyes wide open, 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 halldoor. ‘‘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’ve 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 I’ll 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.’’ ‘‘If there are rats here, I shan’t be surprised 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 and cups—like 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 lookout.’’ ‘‘They won’t cry like a child, nor moan like a sick person, nor stand on balconies dressed in shrouds!’’ observed the housekeeper. ‘‘I think they would do the first two,’’ and I smiled, ‘‘but as to the latter, I’m not prepared to assert.’’ ‘‘I reckon not. I only wish you’d seen it, Mr. Redfield.’’ ‘‘I shall stay to-night in the hope of that pleasure, Mrs. Scott.’’ ‘‘I’m right glad to hear you say so, sir. It’s not pleasant to be placed in the situation 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 offended; 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 occasion of ‘‘company.’’

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‘‘If you’re in earnest about sittin’ up to watch, I’ll make coffee, instid of tea, if it’s agreeable to you, Mr. Redfield. It’s better to keep one awake.’’ I assented to this assertion, being of a similar opinion myself. She set her husband to grinding the delectable berry in a hand-mill, and soon an excellent supper, with cold ham and hot biscuits, was placed upon the table. The night promised to be clear and cold; the moon would not rise until about eleven; I fortified 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 singing 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. ‘‘I’ll leave the coffee-pot on the stove, and a good fire,’’ was the parting promise of the good woman, who seemed to think I had rather a solemn time before me. ‘‘Thank you, Mrs. Scott; if I make no discoveries by one or two o’clock, I shall come in to warm myself, and give up the hope for this occasion. You know midnight is the witching-hour—it will be useless to stay much later.’’ ‘‘The Lord be with you,’’ she said, earnestly. Armed with a stout walking-stick, with which I intended to inflict punishment upon any intruder of earthly mold, I walked out on 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 finally took station on the front porch, where I 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 before dawn. My intention was to take up some position on the lawn, where, unseen myself, I could command the approaches to the villa, and also have a view of Henry’s room, with the balcony. It was time now to secrete myself, before the approaching moon should reveal me to the person or persons who might themselves be on the watch. Accordingly, I selected a seat on the little rustic bench, completely encircled 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 picturesque 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 barking in some dream-world. I had almost forgotten the cause of my being there, at that 118

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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 into which I had fallen, were benumbing me. Suddenly I saw a shapeless and shadowy brightness hovering amid those dark turrets. It was the death-light of which Mrs. Scott had told me. A warm thrill ran through my fingers and toes, arousing me to the keenest consciousness. I watched it flutter and move—stand still—flutter again— and disappear. It lasted perhaps 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; but who carried it, and how was the reflection thrown there, over the roof? There was certainly a mystery about this which, had I been at all superstitious, or even nervous, would have unfitted me for any further cool investigation. 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 reappear, and give me some glimpse of its origin. While I waited, a ray of light pierced through the shutters of Henry’s room. I will acknowledge that for one single instant the hand of the dead seemed laid on my heart; it turned cold, and refused to beat. The next, I smiled grimly 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, unlocked 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 toward it; it was very dark in the upper passage, all the blinds being closed; I groped for the handle of the door—something rustled, something stirred the air— I flung the door open. There was no light in it. All was dark and silent. Before 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. I 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 might be the magnetism of soul instead of body, and a disembodied spirit might have sent the same electric current through me. At all events, I had now nothing for my labor. I did not think that another journey over the house would result in any dis-

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covery, 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 returned 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, 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 inmates; 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 manner changed, but that he wished me to feel that it had. He gave me, as I entered, a searching, suspicious glance, saying, ‘‘Good-morning, Richard,’’ in the most formal tone. Nothing further. I took up a book, hiding my pain and embarrassment in an attempt to read; but my mind was not on the legal difficulties expounded therein; I was wondering at the causes of the situation in which I found myself. A hanger-on! yes, an unwelcome hanger-on in an office where I no longer had any conceded rights—in a home where I was no longer trusted. ‘‘Has 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?’’ I asked myself, indignantly. ‘‘If he thinks I am forming had 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 wounded 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 I not been engrossed with the duty to which I had vowed myself. Yes! I had pledged my own heart to devote myself to the discovery of Henry Moreland’s murderer; and if Eleanor herself had put her foot on 120

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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, late 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 daughter 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 constrained manner.

chapter xii The Night in Moreland Villa Mr. Burton’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. I did not introduce the subject of the mystery at the villa until we had discussed many other matters. My companion was preoccupied with important business of his own—the same which had taken him to Boston; but his interest was pledged, almost as earnestly as mine, to unmask the criminal of the Blankville tragedy, and any reference to that sad subject was sure to secure his attention. Baffled we acknowledged ourselves, as we talked together 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 widelydifferent 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 behind, 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

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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 contemplated 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?’’ ‘‘I think James has been chosen to fill the place.’’ ‘‘But, he has not been admitted to the bar.’’ ‘‘He is studying a little recently; probably in order to pass an examination.’’ ‘‘The wind is changing,’’ said Mr. Burton, speaking like the old gentleman in Bleak House. ‘‘I see how the land lies. The goodly and noble Argyll ship is driving on to the rocks. Mark my words, she will go to pieces soon! you will see her ruins strewing the shore.’’ ‘‘I pray heaven to avert your prophecy. I hope not to live to see any such sight.’’ ‘‘How can it be otherwise?’’ he exclaimed, 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.’’ ‘‘It is mine!’’ I cried; ‘‘I can not help but make it mine, as if these girls were my sisters, and Mr. Argyll my father. Yet, as you say—it is, indeed, nothing to me. They will not allow it to be!’’ I drooped my head on my arms; my own loss and disappointment were receding into the background before the idea of their possible discomfiture. I was startled by the detective bringing his clenched 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 succumbing. 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 daughter had not fancied him. He has been very good to her.’’ ‘‘He has, indeed; I’m sure I ought to be greatly obliged to all of you. Did I ever tell you that I place great confidence in Lenore’s intuitive perception of character? You know that I have a remarkable gift that way myself. When I meet people, I seem to see their minds, and not their bodies— I can’t help it. Well, I’ve remarked the same thing in my child. She is so 122

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young and inexperienced that she can not explain her own impressions; she has her instantaneous partialities, and I have noticed that she leans toward true natures like a flower toward the light, and away from 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 sensitive about appearing in any manner jealous 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 reconsider their opinions. ‘‘Do you know,’’ continued my companion, ‘‘he is performing a marvel with my little Lenore? He has gained a great ascendancy over her in these few days. This morning, for a purpose which you will realize I 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, reflecting 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 laugh. ‘‘I shouldn’t think you would like it.’’ ‘‘I don’t; but she is going home to-morrow. I will tell you why I wished to procure Lenore’s aid again. I have succeeded 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 Blankville, coming here in the night.’’ ‘‘That aunt of hers is in the work,’’ I exclaimed. ‘‘We are justified in taking any step to compel her to own up where she conceals that girl.’’ ‘‘I am convinced that her aunt knows nothing whatever about her. Has Mrs. Scott kept a sharp lookout 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 without being discovered, for the woman has got it into her head that the place is haunted, and she is on guard night and day.’’ ‘‘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 objection. He said, ‘‘Of course; it would give him pleasure; he liked nothing 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:

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‘‘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 haunted house, to ‘‘nab’’ a ghost, was a novelty in his detective experience, which inwardly amused him. He smiled to himself more than once during the intervening hours. As soon as tea was over, we excused ourselves to the family, 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 nonfulfillment of my engagement on the previous night as proof that I was frightened from the pursuit; she accepted my excuse, however, and highly approved of my having a companion in the spiritual dangers which I 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 along with the keys of the house. ‘‘Treat a ghost as you would any other burglar,’’ said my companion, as we approached the villa, in the darkness, by the back entrance. ‘‘Steal a march on him if you can.’’ It was a wild night for an enterprise like ours. It reminded me of that night upon which Henry Moreland was murdered. 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 entrance, Mr. Burton turned the key in the lock; we entered the thick darkness of the house, closed the door, and stole noiselessly, I taking the lead, along the stairs and corridors, until we came to Henry’s room. This we entered, and, finding chairs, sat down upon either side the little table in absolute silence. But we might safely have knocked over half the furniture 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 memories 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 124

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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 loudly 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 overwhelm 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 interruption to our silent watch. Mr. Burton leaned over the table, whispering, ‘‘Did you hear some one singing?’’ ‘‘I 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 instant, as the sound of something shoved overhead attracted our attentive ears. ‘‘It is rats in the garret,’’ said I. ‘‘Mrs. Scott says they are in the house.’’ ‘‘I hardly think it was rats; but we will wait a while.’’ Mr. Burton had brought 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 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 ceiling; and though my heart beat a little faster, I was still quite certain it was these troublesome vermin. The next thing which fixed our attention 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

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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 silently opened the door, crossed the corridor, and, leaning over the railing, looked down into the lower hall. We could see nothing, 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 distance, 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 stepped in, hung the likeness of Henry Moreland. 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 signs. 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, unwitting 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 126

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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 to turn away. 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 tremulous curve to the full, red lips of the tender 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 us, standing 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 vicissitudes to betray any fright; she only turned white, and put her hand on the table to steady herself. ‘‘You two men have 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 conscience,’’ said Mr. Burton, sternly. ‘‘What are you doing in this house?’’ ‘‘I know I have no right here; but where else will you let me stay? Not even by his grave—no, not even by his grave! You want to drag me forth before 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 justify yourselves, do as you will with me!’’ She folded her hands, looking us full in the face with eyes which absolutely blazed. ‘‘If you had no guilty secret, why did you fly from friends and enemies? Why did you not seek an interview and explanation which would have been satisfactory to us?’’ asked Mr. Burton. ‘‘You would not believe me if I told you the reason,’’ scornfully. ‘‘It is 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 girl which quite awed me. As she confronted 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 proper 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 128

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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 you I will not attempt to leave the place. I will wait here until you see fit to come in the morning.’’ ‘‘I 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 the garret staircase, mounting the narrow steps which led into the attic. There, upon the pile of mattresses 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 other day,’’ said Leesy, with a sort of bitter smile. ‘‘I 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 slumbering infant. ‘‘It’s too bad to startle her up so,’’ murmured her nurse. ‘‘Yes, it is. 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.’’ ‘‘I don’t care to take Nora 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 Nora’s mother?’’ she repeated. ‘‘I thought you knew I was not a married woman.’’ The detective stood, a little embarrassed by the perfect simplicity of her reply. ‘‘It 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, turning the key of the little storeroom which inclosed the garret staircase, well satisfied to keep guard until morning, since we had secured the mysterious inmate of the haunted house.

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chapter xiii The Shadow Assumes Shape We now lighted our lamp, and, finding a light cane sofa in the hall, nearly opposite the locked door, we took seats, and kept ourselves awake by talking. The storm had subsided into the monotonous patter of a steady rain. ‘‘I 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 Sullivan was here, in this vicinity; the exact hiding-place was all I wanted to know; and when you mentioned Moreland villa, I 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, ‘‘I hardly feel sure of her now. She may sublime through the ceiling before morning.’’ ‘‘I 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 I be certain, when two thorough daylight examinations failed to reveal any thing? There did not seem to be a place at which a person could enter the house; and as for a woman and child being actual inmates, living and subsisting here for weeks—I think nothing but actual proof could have convinced me of the marvel. I am curious to know how she managed it.’’ ‘‘I ought to have come 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 about the spot. If this Miss Sullivan had been a man, she would have been in Kansas or California by this time; being a woman, I 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.’’ ‘‘If 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.’’ ‘‘I do not know that she did injure him, or cause him to be injured. Circumstances are against her. But I am far from believing her the guilty 130

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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 knowledge which she has, in any way connected with Henry Moreland, I shall draw 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 her arrest, as a party to the murder.’’ ‘‘I shall not object. It is your privilege 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 talked with her, I can elicit no facts to warrant her being put on trial for her life, I shall not give her her liberty until I have consulted both families, laying all my evidence before them. They will be loth to begin a prosecution which they can not sustain, even if they have an impression of guilt. By the way, Redfield, these impressions are curious things! Supposing I should tell you there are persons who, without one particle of proof of any kind, have 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 I have any such inner revelation. And I did not say this, either, to hurt your feelings. I did it to save them. For, if I mistake not, the same person who confided his impressions to me, has recently been gradually confiding them to others. The very thought, the very possibility, once entertained, or half-entertained and driven away again, as an unwelcome guest, still has its injurious influence. You are standing upon an earthquake, Richard— you may be swallowed up any instant.’’ ‘‘I?’’ ‘‘Yes. I have detected the premonitory rumblings. I have said this only to warn you, that you may be ready for self-defense.’’ ‘‘I scorn 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 natural 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

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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 I raised my eyes. ‘‘If I have had such a suspicion, I have struggled against it; I have never breathed it into mortal ear. He has sought to injure me in various ways; I have wished to win and conciliate him; 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 incapable 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 aversion which I may feel for him shall prevent my weighing all facts which come under my observation, with the utmost impartiality. I am on the right track, in this pursuit, and I shall follow it up to the dark end, though you, yourself, abandon it. Justice shall be meted out! If the bolt strikes the loftiest head in all this aristocratic vicinity, it shall fall where it belongs.’’ He left the sofa, walking up and down the corridor with a stern, thoughtful face. As for me, I sunk back on my seat, overwhelmed by the confirmation of a thousand times more than my worst fears. Suspicion of me was creeping like a shadow over the Argyll household. I had felt its approach long 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 grew light enough to see, I heard the gardener cutting wood for the fire, and shortly after I walked over, at Mr. Burton’s request, to ask for some breakfast for the woman and child. I will not describe the garrulous astonishment of the husband and wife upon my announcement that the ghost was cornered, 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 sitting quietly on the edge of the mattresses, curling little Nora’s flaxen hair around her fingers. An obstinate reticence marked her looks and actions; she scarcely replied to any of Mrs. Scott’s inquiries—only, 132

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when the comfort of the child was concerned. For her 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 chimneys and ornamental work of the battlements, had given egress to the mysterious brightness which had hovered so frequently 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 charcoal-furnace, used in the basement in summer-time for the purpose of heating smoothing-irons, which she supplied with fuel from the stock left over in the cellar. The provisions left in the house had served her wants equally well. It was evident that by the exercise of extreme care and vigilance, leaving the house only in the darkness of the night, she might have remained here for a considerable longer time undisturbed in her novel seclusion, had not the light, which she had never ventured to burn until all was dark and silent in the little cottage, by chance first attracted 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. ‘‘It 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. Burton came into the little dwelling, carrying Nora in his arms, who was stroking his cheek with her chubby hand, and followed by the sewing-girl, whose cheeks bore traces of tears, and whose hunted, defiant look had given place to a dejected, gentle expression. ‘‘Mrs. Scott, I want you to do me a kindness,’’ he said, in his authoritative, persuasive manner, to which people seldom thought it worth while to object. ‘‘I want you to take care of Miss Sullivan and this little cousin of hers, until I send them word they are wanted. It may be to-day, or not for a week. In the mean time, if you have any sewing to be done for yourself or 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,

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and make Miss Nora’s acquaintance. I’m ready, Richard, if you are, to return to the village. Lenore will wonder what has become of us. Goodmorning, all.’’ We walked away. ‘‘Are you not afraid to leave that girl unguarded, after all the trouble she 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 murder of Henry Moreland; or any knowledge of the murder—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 can! I shall tell Mr. Argyll, to-day, that I have withdrawn from it—that I give it up. But I am willing you should understand that I have not dropped it entirely—that I shall still retain my interest in it—still secretly pursue my investigations, which I believe I can carry on to the best advantage if all parties believe that I have given the matter up. Are you satisfied?’’ ‘‘If I am 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.’’ ‘‘I do. So will you some day, if we live to see the termination of this thing. In the mean time, I am your friend, Richard, 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 ever you wish to consult me, you will find me what you now know me.’’ I felt strangely as we walked along together. He talked as if he thought some change were coming—as if things were to assume new shapes—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 interview 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 nephew his partner in the practice of the law, and that I was at liberty to take advantage 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 it. Mr. Burton 134

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had given me the clue to the feelings which prompted this rupture of a life-long friendship—it was such as to forbid any questions. No explanations could be made—nothing could obliterate the memory of so deadly a wrong as they were committing upon me. The golden bowl of friendship was broken 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 opportunity to make. I might find what I 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 to repay), and begging him to trouble himself not at all about my fortunes, I bowed myself from the office where I had spent so much of the last three years of my life. Blind, dizzy, cold, I went to my boarding-house to pack my trunks. Before I went to bed, my few arrangements 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 traveling receptacle. But, as for the rest!—for the wealth which my heart had silently garnered during the golden harvest of 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 breakfast, 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 I 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 on the way to the cars, giving myself a few minutes for this farewell. As I knocked at the door, one of the servants opened it. I sent her to ask Miss Argyll if she would come down to say good-by, before I left on my visit to my mother; and Mary—I would like to see her also. While I 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 morning.’’

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‘‘Where is she?’’ ‘‘In 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 conservatory, like a statue draped in crape. ‘‘Eleanor!’’ 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 passage, 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 don’t believe one word of it—not one word! I never shall. I am your friend. I love you; indeed I do. I 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.

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Part II chapter i The Letter The reader can now understand why it was that I turned cold with excitement 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-committal—directed to an unknown person of a neighboring village—I yet felt assured that those vague hints had reference to the sinful tragedy which had occurred October 17th, 1857. Here was placed in my hands—at last!—a clue to that mystery which I had once sworn to unravel. Yet, how slender was the clue, which might, after all, lead me into still profounder labyrinths of doubt and perplexity! As I pondered, it seemed to break and vanish in my fingers. Yet, I felt, in spite of this, an inward sense that I held the key which was surely to unlock the awful secret. I can never rightly express the feelings which, for the first few moments, overpowered me. My body was icy cold, but my soul stung and stirred me as with fire, and seemed to rise on ‘‘budding wings’’ of flame with conviction of a speedy triumph which was to come after long suffering. I arose, clutched my hat, and went forth from the Department, 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 history, 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 settlement in life. I made the visit to my mother. She was shocked at the change in me, 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; not 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 words, 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 her all, 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 a sure result—a reaction 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 indignation 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 friend of my father, and accuse him, face to face, of the wrong he had done her boy. But, out of this I persuaded 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 I had lost. For a few weeks I abandoned myself to her healing attentions. Then I set myself resolutely to find work both for hands and mind. My mother was not without influential friends. As I have said, my fortunes were somewhat nipped by my father’s untimely death, but our family and associations were among the best. We had a relative in power at Washington. 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 I should abandon the profession for which I 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 temperament, aspirations, 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 138

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prematurely, 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 his 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 coldness. 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 Olympus. Half 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 it before Mr. Argyll, but he might not feel, as I did, that it had any connection with the murder, neither was there anything 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-basket and the flames. The hand of an overruling 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 murderer 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 instrument 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 circumstance which had attached suspicion to me, in the eyes of those interested, had made it dangerous for me to move in a matter where 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.

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I was fully startled from my apathy. That night I wrote my resignation 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 the day when we parted in Blankville; I only 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 detectives 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 assurance he had given me of friendship, but I did not believe that he had shown any friendship for me, in that consultation 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 multiplicity 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 forward, 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. ‘‘I heard your voice, Richard,’’ he said, ‘‘and did not wait for you to be ushered in with the formalities. Welcome, my friend;’’ his expression was as if he had said—‘‘Welcome, my son.’’ He led me into the library, and placing me in an armchair, sat down opposite me, 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?’’ ‘‘I 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.’’ ‘‘Day before yesterday this letter arrived at the office, and I chanced to be the clerk who opened it.’’ I handed him the missive. He examined the envelope attentively, before unfolding the sheet within; and as he continued to hold it in his hand, and 140

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gaze at it, one of those wonderful changes passed over his countenance that I had remarked on some previous important occasions. His practical intelligence seized upon the date, the post-office marks, the hasty direction, and made the contents of the letter his own, almost, before he read it. For some moments he pondered the outside, then drew forth the letter, perused it with one swift glance, and 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 seeing me, recalled his surroundings to his recollection. ‘‘It is sad to be made to feel that such creatures live and flourish,’’ he said, almost despondingly; ‘‘but,’’ as his face brightened, ‘‘I can 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 document into your hands was a marvelous one, Richard.’’ ‘‘However simple the explanation may prove to be, I shall always regard it as Providential.’’ ‘‘All things are Providential,’’ said my companion, ‘‘none less, and none more so. Causes will have their effects. But now, as to the writer of this— I am glad I have a specimen of the villain’s handwriting; 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. His childhood was passed in ignorance, in the midst of the worst associations; and his own nature is almost utterly depraved. He is bad, from instinct, inheritance 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?’’ I asked. ‘‘I 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 sufficient for me; I can not mistake,’’—then, observing my puzzled and incredulous look, he smiled, as he added, ‘‘By the way, Richard, you are

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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 perceptions, are the only witchcraft I 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 instrument.’’ ‘‘I do not know about that, Mr. Burton. 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.’’ ‘‘It has its rules, for me. But as proof is better than argument, 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.’’ I emptied my inside coat-pocket of its contents, among which were several letters—one from my mother, a note from my uncle 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 remember, an entreaty from a young man to get him something to do in that magnetic center of all unemployed particles—Washington. Of these, I revealed only to him the superscription and signature, with, perhaps, some unimportant sentence, which would, in no way, of itself, betray the characters or pursuits of the writers. I need not describe my surprise 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. I could hardly credit my own senses; there must be some ‘‘hocus-pocus’’ about it, as in the tricks which jugglers play with cards. But my respect for the earnestness 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 his facts, and I give these facts to my readers, at the risk of seeing the plain, sensible nose of the majority turned up with an expression of skepticism, mortifying to me. Mr. Burton’s character is a real one, and the truth of his wonderful achievements will become 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 interest in it had deepened, rather than lessened; that he had not been idle during all this 142

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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 looking and behaving better. ‘‘It 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 long since I had any tidings of the Argylls—death could hardly have created a more barren space between us. Yet, now that I heard the names of the girls mentioned, a flood of old emotions broke over me, beneath which I struggled, half-suffocated. Keen pain shot through my heart at the idea of Mary, that innocent, most sweet and lovable girl, becoming the wife of James. I felt as if it ought to be prevented, yet how could I interfere? Why should I wish to? I recalled the hour when she had flown to me—had said, ‘‘I believe in you, Richard; I love you!’’ and I knew that I had put a construction upon the tearful, passionate words of her 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, unmated 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 sister. 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, deceitful 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. I had loved her for this noble beauty of her nature, and should have been disappointed 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

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to complain about; but I would rather, still, that she would wrong me than herself. Lastly, Mr. Burton assured me that he had tidings of the five-hundreddollar bill which had been stolen from Mr. Argyll’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 attached to it. Wells, Fargo & Co. had given him every assistance in their power to discover who had sold that bill to the California 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 not 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 deadletter, that the five-hundred-dollar bill was a part of the sum referred to by the writer; that it had come out of Mr. Argyll’s desk, and that it was blood-money paid for a murder; and the receiver was this person who, in the letter, so explicitly declared his intention of fleeing to California. We were much excited in the presence of these bold facts. In our enthusiasm, 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 individual whose deeds were yet so patent to us. At this revelation of conspiracy, my mind eagerly searched about for the accessory, 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 that I resolved to keep a separate watch which should not be influenced by his decisions. While I was thinking of this, Mr. Burton was walking about the floor. Suddenly he stopped before me and looked into mine with those vivid eyes, so full of power, and said, as confidently as if a vision had revealed it to him, ‘‘I have now made out all the meaning of the letter. In the first place, it is written ‘by contraries’—that is, it means just the contrary of what it says. The contract was fulfilled. The price was expected, the emigration decided 144

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upon. The 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 instrument of death, after which the accomplice is directed to look. That instrument is 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, expression.

chapter ii 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 tray, having waited in vain for the usual summons. With its appearance Lenore came in, the same lovely, sylph-like little creature, but looking rather less fragile than when I saw her last. At the sight of me, her color went and came—one instant she hesitated, then approached 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 the time of my absence; and I attributed her blushes, upon meeting me, to her frank heart accusing her of the disparaging thoughts she had entertained of me. The subtle influence of James had doubtless, without any necessity for putting the idea into words, warned her against me as a bad man; but now as she looked at me, she was sorry for what she had felt, and disposed to renew her old friendship. Before lunch was concluded, Mr. Burton 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; but

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other considerations were even weightier than our fears for the shock to her nervous system; and after she had chatted a while with us, and had sung for me, Mr. Burton subjected her to the experiment. It had been so long since he had exercised his power over her, that it required a greater effort than on the former occasion 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?’’ ‘‘It is too dark to see. A lamp shines across the walk, and I see a man dropping the letter in the box. He is muffled up so that I can not tell about his face; he steals up and goes off again very quickly.’’ ‘‘Follow him, Lenore.’’ ‘‘It is too dark, father. I am lost in the streets. Oh! now I 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 Lenore, pitifully; ‘‘all is dark and uncertain. I have missed him—I do not know him from others.’’ ‘‘Try again, my darling. Look well at the letter.’’ ‘‘All is dark and uncertain,’’ she repeated, in a vague tone. ‘‘It is useless,’’ exclaimed Mr. Burton, in a burst of disappointment; ‘‘it has been too long since the letter was penned. The personality of the writer has departed from it. If she had only been able to pursue him to his haunts, our investigations in that vicinity might have richly repaid us.’’ Finding it impossible to get any more information from the child, she was relieved from her trance, stimulated with a glass of cordial, and sent up to take a siesta before the hour for dinner. Scarcely 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!’’ ‘‘I am afraid you will not find it so easy. People carrying on a correspondence 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 146

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missive ever sent, through the mail, to that address—and this, evidently, was never called for.’’ ‘‘At least, it is worth inquiring into,’’ I added, less triumphantly. ‘‘Of course it is. We wish, also, to ascertain how the letter came dragging along to Washington two years, nearly, behind its time. I propose that we start for Peekskill by the early morning train.’’ To wait, even until morning, seemed too tardy for my mood. But as it was now four o’clock, and I had no right to ask the detective to resign his dinner and evening comfort, I made no objection to the time. And, in truth, the time sped more swiftly than I expected; we had still 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 believed, we should find secreted in a certain oak upon the premises. This we wished to do without the knowledge of the family, for two reasons: the smaller one of which was, that I did not wish my visit to be made 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 purposes by the willingness with which we gave time, money and mind to our object. I had first proposed the visit to California, avowing my intention to make it, when Mr. Burton had surprised me by offering to be my companion. This was a sacrifice which I could not have asked or expected of him; but he would not allow me to view it in that light, saying, with pleasant peremptoriness, that Lenore needed a sea-voyage, and he had been thinking of taking one on her account. He would make 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 inefficiency, as compared with his talent and experience—all I had to encourage 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, I should feel almost elated. We were at Peekskill the next day in good season. We found the same postmaster in service who had been in the office at the time the dead-letter arrived there. When Mr. Burton—I lounging carelessly in the background —showed the envelope and inquired how it had occurred that it had been

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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 for a neglect of duty by some indignant individual. ‘‘I will tell you how it happened, Mr. Owen,’’ said he, ‘‘if you’re the person addressed on that envelope. You never came for the letter, and before the expiration of the time required by law for forwarding 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, and the room fixed up. In tearing down the old fixings, several letters were discovered which had slipped into a crack between the shelf and wall. This was one of them. I thought, ‘better late than never,’ though at first I had a mind to throw them into the stove. I hope, sir, the loss of the letter hasn’t put you to any very great inconvenience?’’ ‘‘It was of some importance,’’ answered my companion, in a commonplace tone, ‘‘and I’m not sorry, even yet, to have recovered 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 remember a young man, a coachman, coming for my letters?’’ ‘‘He never came but twice, to my knowledge,’’ answered the postmaster, giving a glance of curiosity at the speaker. ‘‘I wondered who it was they were for—not being any one that I knew—and I know mostly everybody in the district. Traveling through our town, perhaps?’’ ‘‘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 call him to an account for some of his conduct which was not satisfactory. Can you describe his personal appearance?—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 all if 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.’’ 148

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‘‘Can’t say any thing more about it,’’ was the reply of the postmaster. ‘‘I couldn’t answer if he were large or small, white or black, except as to his eyes, which were about all I saw of him. If you want to find out about him, why don’t you go to the livery-keeper who furnished your team to you? Of course, his employer could tell you all you want to know.’’ ‘‘That would be the most sensible course,’’ answered the detective, with a laugh. ‘‘But, my good friend, it is considerably out of my way to go to S; and I must leave on the train up, in half an hour. After all, the matter is not of so much importance. I had a 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 possession 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 Blankville until after dark, we had to leave the cars once again, and to get off at a little intermediate station, with half a dozen houses clustered about it; and here we whiled away, as we best could, several tedious hours, whose dreariness 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 restlessness 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 twilight, the train stopped and took us up, my mind ran on before the iron-horse, and was at the end of the little journey before the commencement. Upon arriving at Blankville, we descended the rear car and walked up toward the village, without approaching the depot, as I was afraid the lamps might betray me to some former acquaintance. It was a mild evening, early in September, and I had no excuse for muffling up; so I pulled my hat down over my eyes, quite sure that I should escape recognition, in the dim moonlight, which, overblown by light, thin clouds, transfused the western sky. We walked about, in quiet parts of the village, until ten o’clock; and then, the moon having set, we approached the Argyll mansion, along the well-remembered street. I know not if my companion guessed my disturbance, as I passed the office and came up in front of the lawn, black beneath 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 believing it—life is sweet and strong in the heart of youth, which will endure many blows before it will cease to beat with the tremulous thrill of hope and passion.

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A bright light was shining from the windows of the parlor and several of the other rooms, but the hall-door was closed, and every thing was so quiet 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 our visit, before its purpose was accomplished, I was to retreat, while Mr. Burton would boldly approach and make the excuse 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 to 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, before my fingers, pressing into the ragged cavity of the slowly-decaying limb, touched a cold object which I knew to be steel. My hand recoiled with an instinctive shudder, but returned immediately to its duty, cautiously drawing forth a slender instrument of which I could not make out the precise character. Upon raising my head, after securing the object of our anxiety, my eyes fell upon a scene which held them fascinated for so long a 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 on the left were both open, the chandeliers lighted, and from my airy eyrie in the tree, I 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 the chandelier, was one of the sisters, reading a book. At first—yes, for a full minute— I thought it was Eleanor!—Eleanor 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, the light on the brow, the glory of health, youth and joy upon every feature and in every flow of her garments, from the luster of her hair to the glimmer of her silken slipper. ‘‘Can it be?’’ I 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, during the months of my absence, as to be almost the counterpart of what Eleanor had been. When 150

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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 culmination been—she had expanded into the perfection of all that is loveliest in her sex. A thoughtfulness, caused, probably, by the misfortune which had befallen the house—a shadow from the cloud which wrapped her sister—toned down the frolicsome gayety which had once characterized her, and added the grace of sentiment 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 yellow light, like water shining about a lily; as she bent above her book, her hair clustered about her throat, softening its exquisite outlines; so near, so vivid, was the unconscious tableau-vivant, seen through the open frame of the window, that I 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 sympathy, though not from adoration. Gliding behind her sister’s chair, she bent a moment 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. I had heard her low ‘‘good-night.’’ Then, almost before she had vanished, came the third figure into the picture. James, approaching as if from 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 its sphere. No sooner did I realize my position than I began to descend from my eyrie; but James had drawn his cousin from her chair, and the pair approached the window, and stood there, their eyes fixed, apparently, upon that very point in the giant oak where I crouched, suddenly fear-blasted, with the square of light from the 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 consciousness that should I then and there be betrayed, I would be the victim of a singular combination of circumstantial evidence.

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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 discovery— why, I tell you, reader, had James Argyll sprung upon me there, seized the knife, accused me, nothing would have saved me from condemnation. The probabilities are, that the case would have been so very conclusive, and the guilt so horribly aggravated, that the populace would have taken the matter in their own hands, and torn me to pieces, to show their love of justice. Even the testimony of Mr. Burton would not have availed to turn the tide in my favor; he would have been accused 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 convict 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 endured. The young couple stepped out 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, doubtless, 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 so warm, it will not harm you to be out a 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 window, and paused directly under the limb of the tree, which seemed 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 sinister. 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 I may claim you. I do not believe in long engagements; I want to make you mine before any disaster 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, I am 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 over-persuade me; we might 152

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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: ‘‘I am surprised that you do not feel that I regard you as already betrothed to 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—shall I betray it to you?’’ She was silent. ‘‘Your heart is still set on that scoundrel. One might suppose that 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 persist 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 unfair means,’’ said the girl, speaking proudly. ‘‘I gave him what he had of it—and he never knew how large a part that was. I wish he had known, poor Richard! for I still believe that you are all wronging 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,’ again, Mary. I’m worn out, now, and half mad with my feelings—and it makes me desperate. One thing is certain: I can not stay any longer where you are, if you continue so undecided. I want a final answer to-night. If it is unpropitious, I shall go away tomorrow, and seek for 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 leans 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 recovered from the shock of Henry’s death, and Richard’s—going away.’’ ‘‘If you think so, Mary, why do you 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 154

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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 worked its way, thus far, against all obstacles. 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, I had heard the promise of Mary to become the wife of James before the beginning of another year. Never was a man more glad to release himself from an unpleasant predicament than I was to descend from my perch when the two figures had passed within the house. My fear of discovery had become 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 in the shadow of the trees, I whispered—‘‘Burton.’’ ‘‘Got yourself into a pretty scrape,’’ was instantly answered, in a low tone, as my friend took my arm and we moved forward to the gate. ‘‘I didn’t know but we should have a tragico-comedy upon the spot, impromptu and highly interesting.’’ ‘‘I almost wonder that you are not too greatly out of patience with waiting to jest about the matter.’’ ‘‘I’ve told you my motto—‘learn to 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, murderous 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 part of the house dark—hurried forward, and without any molestation, or our presence in Blankville being known to a single acquaintance, took the night-train back to New York, which we reached about two, a.m., and were 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 of a gas-burner turned on, that I took from my pocket the weapon, and handed it to my companion. Both of us bent curiously forward to examine it. ‘‘This,’’ said the detective, in a surprised and somewhat agitated tone, ‘‘is a surgical instrument. You see, it is quite unlike a common knife. It corroborates one of my conclusions. I told you the blow was dealt by a practiced hand—it has been dealt by one skilled in anatomy. There’s another link in my chain. I hope I shall have patience until I shall 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 remarked. ‘‘No doubt, indeed,’’ and Mr. Burton went to a drawer of a secretary

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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. I 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 wedding 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 for ever. 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, leaping 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 cousin, and ran away from her, was a doctor—Miss Sullivan has told me that. Richard, I begin to see light!— day is breaking!’’ I hardly knew whether his speech was figurative or literal, as day was really breaking upon us two men, plotting there in the night, as if we were the criminals 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 exultation.

chapter iii The Confession In the afternoon we paid Miss Sullivan a visit. It was the first time I had met her since that strange night of watching at Moreland villa; and I confess that I 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. If he still had suspicions, it was evident that he had kept them from their object as skillfully as from me, for I saw, by her manner of receiving him, that she regarded him as a friend. Notwithstanding I had been informed of her rapidly-failing health, I 156

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was shocked at the change in Miss Sullivan since I had seen her. It was with an effort that she rose from her easy-chair at our approach; the fullness 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 smolder above unfathomable depths of volcanic 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. I do 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 she was soon sitting on my knee. She was a pretty little girl, about three years old, in whose chubby little features I could no longer trace any resemblance to her ‘‘aunt.’’ She prattled after the fashion of children, and in listening to her, I lost a remark or two of Mr. Burton’s; but soon had my attention aroused by hearing Miss Sullivan exclaim, ‘‘Going away! For how long?’’ ‘‘Three months, at least.’’ Her hands sunk in her lap, and she became pale and agitated. ‘‘It is presumptuous in me to dare to be sorry; I am nothing to you; but you are much to me. I don’t know how we shall get along without you.’’ ‘‘Don’t be uneasy about that, my child. I 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 blessing of the friendless. I only wish it had the power to bring you good luck on your journey.’’ ‘‘Perhaps it will,’’ he said, with a smile. ‘‘I have a great deal of faith in such blessings. But, Leesy, I think you can assist my journey in even a more tangible way than that.’’ She looked at him inquiringly. ‘‘I want you to tell me all and every thing you know about the father of little Nora.’’ ‘‘Why, sir?’’ she quickly asked. ‘‘I hope you have not heard from him,’’ looking 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 recover it. Would you not be glad to see Nora under her father’s protection before you were taken away?’’ She stretched out her arms for the child, who slid off my knee, ran and

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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 little one from threatened danger. ‘‘I know, much more surely than any one else, that my days are numbered. I 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 before you come back from your journey; and my darling will be left friendless. I 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.’’ ‘‘Why?’’ ‘‘Because he is a bad man.’’ ‘‘I understand that he is in California; and as I am going to San Francisco, and perhaps shall 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 child closer, with a shudder. ‘‘I have forgotten his name,’’ said Mr. Burton. ‘‘I will not tell you,’’ answered Miss Sullivan, with a return of the old fierceness, 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 penetrating voice which had such power to move people to his will. ‘‘I do not know,’’ she cried; ‘‘you have seemed to be my friend. But how do I know that it is not all simply to compass my destruction at last? You have brought into my house that person,’’ looking at me, ‘‘who has 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 grave, and not allowed to go in peace.’’ ‘‘I assure you, Leesy, I had no idea that you regarded Nora’s father with so much dislike. I have no object in 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 I would like is, that you shall give me a history of his life, his habits, character, where he lived, what was his business, etc.; and I will give you my reasons for wishing the information. A circumstance has come to light 158

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which connects him with an affair which I am investigating—that is, if he is the person I think he is—a sort of a doctor, I believe?’’ Miss Sullivan did not answer the question 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 a master. ‘‘Time is precious. I can not wait upon a woman’s whim. I 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 quietly to being compelled to answer before a court, all is right. I must know what I desire about this man.’’ ‘‘Man, Mr. Burton! Call him creature.’’ ‘‘Very well, creature, Leesy. You know him better than I do, and if you say 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 an 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?’’ ‘‘I can not say that I was acquainted with him. I do not remember that I ever spoke a word with him. But I knew him, by sight, very well. He had a face which 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 in my memory. I was almost a stranger then in Blankville— had lived there only about a year.’’ ‘‘How did he come to have any connection with your family, Leesy?’’ Miss Sullivan had grown pale during the agitation of our talk, but she flushed again at the question, hesitated, and finally, looking the detective full in the eyes, answered: ‘‘Since you have promised, upon your honor, not to disturb me any further about this matter, and since I am under obligations to you, sir, which I 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

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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 something to relieve the toothache, and I went into the nearest place, which was the new one. There was no one in but the owner. I was surprised by the great politeness with which he treated me, and the interest he seemed to take in the case of my aunt. He was a long time putting up the medicine, pasting the label on, and making change, so that I 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 propriety, but occasionally a touch of her mother’s country, in accent or expression, betrayed her Irish origin.) ‘‘That was the beginning 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 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 beautiful—too much so, alas, for my own peace of mind—for it made me despise the humble and honest 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 I was handsome that I held myself aloof from those in my own station; it was because I felt that I had thoughts and tastes they could not understand— that my life was above theirs in hope, in aspiration. I was ambitious, but only to develop the best that was in me. If I could only be a needle-woman all my days, then I would be so skillful and so fanciful with my work, as almost 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 thoroughly, 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—I 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 temper, 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 a fine drug-store with the doctor’s name in gilt letters on the door of his office. 160

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‘‘George soon offered himself, and was terribly angry when I refused him. I believe he loved me, in his selfish way, better than he 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 a rage. 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, I remember of his being in a savage passion, and threatening me. It was after’’—here the speaker’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 those people were making a fool of me—that I 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 business whatever with my affairs. That made him madder than ever, and he muttered words which I did not like. I told him I was not afraid of any mortal thing, and I didn’t think he would frighten me into marrying him. He said he would scare me yet, so that I would never get over it. I 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 whispered against his character. Indeed, people 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 in a doctor’s office in one of the towns in this 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 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 studying the doctor’s books, which he managed to get hold of one at a time. By these means, and by observing keenly the physician’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 smattering 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 understood, 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 like or trust him. There was something dark and hidden in the workings of his mind, from which I shrunk. I knew him, too, to be

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cruel. I could see it 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 almost 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 Thorley told her, and fell in love with him, of course. When she went away, after her little holiday, George found that, instead of provoking me to jealousy, he had only roused my temper at the way he had fooled 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 scandal 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 fancystore. You know, Mr. Burton, for I once laid my heart before you, what wild, mad, but sinless infatuation it was which drew me there. I am not ashamed of it. God is love. When I 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 adoration.’’ 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 almost reverence. Never do I expect to meet another woman, the whole conformation 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 a great deal—indeed, he hardly went out at all. ‘‘It 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 I was, for the present—so I went back to my aunt, without trying to get a situation in New York. ‘‘It was about six months after this I got word from Nora, begging me to come and see her. I loved my cousin, and I’d felt grieved that she was married to Dr. Thorley. I mistrusted something was wrong; so I went to the 162

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city, and found her out in the miserable tenement where she was now stopping, starving herself in a room with hardly a bit of furniture. She burst out a-crying when she saw me; and when I stopped her sobbing, she told me she had not seen George for more than three months; that either he had 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 could hardly earn enough to buy a bit of bread and pay the rent of this room. ‘‘ ‘Do you really think he has left you?’ I asked her. ‘‘ ‘Sure, how can I tell?’ she answered, looking at me so pitifully with her innocent blue eyes. ‘He was a fine gentleman, and it’s afraid I am that he’s grown tired of his poor Irish Nora.’ ‘‘ ‘I warned you, cousin,’ I said; ‘I knew George Thorley for a villain; but you were taken with his fine words, and wouldn’t heed. I’m sorry, sorry, sorry for you—but that won’t undo what’s done. Are you 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.’ ‘‘I could never ascertain whether the ceremony had been performed by a legalized minister; I always suspected my poor cousin had been deceived, and it was because my aunt thought so, too, and was 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 was born; I saw her decently buried, and then I put out the infant 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 would bring it up, and I have kept my word, thus far. I hated its father for the way he’d treated Nora, but I loved the child; I took pleasure in making its pretty garments and in seeing that it was well taken care of. I knew I should never marry; and I adopted 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 he’d gone out West, and been hard at work, to try and forget the past. But he couldn’t forget it; and when he saw his wife’s death in the papers, he had felt awfully; but now he hoped

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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, I was so indignant, and faced him till he grew as white as a sheet. I called him a murderer—yes, Nora’s murderer—and ordered him never to speak to me nor come near me again. 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 it 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 long time, I don’t know. He may have been in the city all the time, or he may have been in Cincinnati. At any rate, one day, as I was going from my boarding-house to the store, I found him walking 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, I 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 home, and into my room, against my will, and there I turned upon him and told him that if he ever dared to force himself into my presence again, I would summon the police, and he should be turned over to the Blankville authorities for the crime that had driven him out of the village. ‘‘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 as he shut the door. His smile was more threatening than any scowl would have been. I was frightened for Nora. Every day I expected to hear that the little creature had been taken from her nurse; I trembled night and day; but nothing happened to the child, and from that day to this I have not seen George Thorley. If he is in California, I am glad of it; for that is a good ways off, and perhaps he’ll never get track of his daughter. I’d far rather she’d die and be buried with her mother and myself, than to live to ever know that she had such a father. ‘‘It 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 heart so high above me, and then to have fallen, by means of that love, into such a dreadful pit of circumstances— not only to be heart-broken, but so driven and hunted about the world, with my poor little lambkin here.’’ The pathetic look and tone with which she said this touched me deeply. For the first time, I felt fully the exceeding cruelty I had been guilty of 164

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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 innocent; I did pity her for her own melancholy 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 lavished her soul upon him whose memory called upon his friends for sleepless 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 corresponding in all particulars with that given by Mr. Burton, after reading the dead-letter; 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 detective again assuring Leesy that he should rather protect her against Thorley than 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. ‘‘It 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 recognize the person you saw upon the lawn, at Mr. Argyll’s, that night—have you a suspicion who it might be?’’ ‘‘None. I believe the man was a stranger to me. I only saw him by a flash of lightning at the instant he was descending from the tree; if he had been an acquaintance I do not know that I 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. ‘‘I’m her only friend,’’ said my companion, as he walked away. ‘‘No wonder she is moved at letting me go. I 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 industry.’’ ‘‘You speak as if the triumph were already secured.’’ ‘‘If 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,

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Richard, that I have not confided all my secrets to you. There will be no one more astonished than yourself when I summon my witnesses 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 excite 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, retiring manner which I had done in Washington. 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 demanded no luxurious gratification—not even the purchase of new books; so that now, when this sudden demand arose, I had a fund sufficient for the purpose. Mr. Burton bore his own expenses, which, indeed, 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 difficulty in getting upon his track. At the time the detective had discovered the return of the five-hundred dollar bill from San Francisco, he had, with great perseverance, 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 sagacity 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 166

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was his assistant, willing to carry out his directions, 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 were broken up also many of the cynical ways of thinking 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. Already, in imagination, I had accepted their regret and forgiven them their injustice. 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 delicious, 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 of flowers blown from some beloved and distant shore. The most vivid picture in my sea-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 womanhood, the ideal of beauty to the eye of a young and appreciative man, whose standard 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 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-abnegating, and when I saw that her despair had worked itself up to a patient and aspiring resignation, I now felt less of pity and more of affectionate reverence. I would 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 loves of this world. Still, as I mused in my sea-reveries, I believed myself to have exhausted my wealth of feeling upon this now dead and hallowed love. I had given my first offering at the feet of a woman, peerless amid her com-

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peers, and since she had chosen before me, I must needs live solitary, too honored by having worshiped a woman like Eleanor, to ever be satisfied with a second choice. For 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 gratitude, 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 pang which came of my dislike to the motives and character of James. I did not believe that he loved her. Eleanor he had loved; but Mary was to him only the necessary means of securing the name, property, respectability, etc., of his uncle’s family. As I recalled that visit to the gaming-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 being again treated as before—of being misunderstood and insulted—I would run any risk to save her from the unhappiness which must come from such a partnership! 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. I 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 feverish dread of delays was upon him. After we had crossed the isthmus, and were fairly embarked on the Pacific, his restlessness abated. Yet it was just then that a small delay occurred, which threatened to irritate him into new impatience. It was found that the captain had taken on board quite a company of passengers whom he had promised to land at Acapulco. It was a beautiful, sunny day early in October, that our ship steamed into the little bay. Nearly all the passengers were on deck, to take a look at the country and harbor as we approached. I was upon the hurricane-deck with Lenore, 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 glimmering water of the bay, with all the intelligence of a woman; while I could not but be more pleased with the roses blowing on her cheeks and the trick the wind was playing with her hair, than with all the scenery about us. The child’s attendant, a steady, careful matron, who had long had the charge of her, was likewise on deck, chatting with some of her new acquaintances, and she could not refrain from coming to us, presently, on the pretext of wrapping Lenore’s shawl closer about her. 168

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‘‘Do look at her, Mr. Redfield,’’ said the good woman, ‘‘did you ever see her looking so bright and healthy, sir? The master 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 company that you’re the best-lookin’ couple on the decks. I’ve heard more’n one speak of it this past half-hour.’’ ‘‘That’s half true, anyhow,’’ I answered, 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 unconscious of her pretty looks as hitherto. ‘‘There’s papa coming,’’ she said; ‘‘something has happened to him.’’ With her marvelous quick discernment, so like her father’s, she perceived, before I did, that he was excited, although endeavoring 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 true.’’ ‘‘Where would you go? Walk off on the water, or betake yourself to the valleys and mountains of Mexico?’’ ‘‘There’s no jest about it, Richard. Information, which has come to me in the strangest, most unexpected manner, renders 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 off 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 Richard will take as good care of you as I would. I want you to enjoy yourselves, to have no cares, to take the second return steamer, which will give you a fortnight in San Francisco, and I will meet you at the isthmus. As you will have nothing to do, after your arrival, I will advise 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 little 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 Acapulco. If I were not positive of it, I should not run the risk of experiment, now, when time

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is worth every thing. But I am 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 Lenore 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, I 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.’’ ‘‘I shall do just as you advise, Mr. Burton; but, of course, I 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 remaining 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 so soon learning the one fact most important to us—the hiding-place of that man. Think you I would wish delay? No. I’m 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 incurring risks which you ought to share with others? Can I go on, idle and prosperous, leaving you to do all the work, and brave all the dangers of a journey like yours?’’ ‘‘I wish it. There may be a little personal risk; but not more, perhaps, than I incur every day of my life. Perhaps you do not know,’’ he added, gayly, ‘‘that I lead a charmed life. Malice and revenge have followed me in a hundred disguises—six times I have escaped poisoned 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 said, God willing, I will meet you at the isthmus. If I do not keep my 170

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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 has 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. I had forgotten about that five-hundred-dollar bill, which certainly went to California within a short time after the robbery. If I should be mistaken, after all—but no! my information is too conclusive—I must take the course, now, and if I am on the wrong track, it will be a bad business. However, I will not allow myself to think so,’’ he added, brightening again; ‘‘but it will do no harm for you to take a lesson in my art, by exercising your skill in tracing the fortunes of that bank-note. 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 lower deck—form, face and manner 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 hardly 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.

chapter v On the Trail I need not dwell at much length upon our visit to San Francisco, since nothing important to the success of our enterprise came of it. From the hour we entered the Golden Gate till we departed through it, I 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 unparalleled growth and hybrid civilization. I gave the most of my time to two objects—looking, by night, into all the bad, popular, or out-of-theway dens, haunts, saloons, theaters and hotels, scanning every one of the

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thousands of strange faces, for that one sinister countenance, which I felt that I could know at a glance—and in the endeavor to identify the man who had disposed of the Park Bank bill to the Express 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 offered the bill to be discounted at the time it had been accepted by the company. I made the acquaintance of the Spanish gentleman, and, with a delicacy of address upon which I flattered myself, I managed to learn, without being too impertinent, that he had obliged a fellowpassenger, 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 Company. 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 possible, 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. Burton would find the face before I did; and, in the relief consequent upon this hope, I began to give more heed to his injunction, 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 happy. 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 sister 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 her manners and feelings. Her attendant was one of those active women who like nothing so much as plenty of business responsibility; the trip, to her, was full of the kind of excitement she preferred; the entire charge of the little maiden intrusted to her care, was one of the most delightful accidents that ever happened to her; I believe she rejoiced daily in the absence of Mr. Burton, simply because it added to the importance of her duties. But I was glad when the fortnight’s long delay was over, and we were reembarked upon our journey. 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 good genius of our party, or—that blank which would announce tidings of fatal evil. We glided prosperously over the rounded swells of the Pacific, through 172

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sunshiny days, and nights of brilliant moonlight. Through the soft evenings, Lenore, well wrapped in shawls and hood by her faithful woman, remained with me upon deck, sometimes until quite late, singing, one after another, those delicious melodies never more subtly, understandingly rendered, than by this small spirit of song. Rapt crowds would gather, at respectful distances, to listen; but she sung for my sake, and for the music’s, unheeding who came or went. Sometimes, even now, I wake at night from a dream of that voyage, with the long wake of glittering silver 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 between stars and sea. The last twenty-four hours before reaching 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 length 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 next morning. It was expected the steamer would reach her dock some time after midnight. As the 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, setting forth, ‘‘a stranger in a strange land,’’ upon his dangerous errand, that I blamed myself bitterly for yielding to his wishes, and allowing him to remain at Acapulco. In order to comfort myself, I recalled his ability to cope with danger—his physical strength, his unshaken coolness of nerve and mind, his calmness of purpose 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

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if Mr. Burton was as impatient as myself, he would, despite the storm and the late hour, be upon the dock awaiting our arrival; and if so, he should not find me slumbering. As we neared our landing, I crowded in among the sailors at the forward part of the boat, and strained my eyes through the gloom to the little twinkle of light given out by the lamps along the quay. As 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 sailors. The passengers generally were snug in their berths, where they remained until morning. In a few moments the ropes were cast ashore and we were moored to 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 reconnoitered the various groups, when a loud, cheery voice called out, ‘‘Richard, halloo!’’ I experienced a welcome revulsion of feeling as these pleasant tones startled me to the consciousness that Mr. Burton had emerged from the shadow of a lamppost, against which he had been leaning, and was now almost within shaking-hands distance. I could have laughed or cried, whichever happened, as I recognized the familiar voice and form. Presently he 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 successful!’’ or he to answer; there was a light on his face which assured me that at least he had not entirely failed. ‘‘I have much, much to tell you, Richard. But first about my darling— is she well—happy?’’ ‘‘Both. We 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?’’ ‘‘Oh, I was so afraid you had not got away from Acapulco.’’ ‘‘You do look pale, that’s a fact, Richard—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. Justice shall be done. The wicked in high places shall be brought low.’’ He always spoke as if impressed with an awful sense of his responsibility in bringing the iniquities of the favored 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 174

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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 possible. 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 interest, to 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 reservations—which I could not fail to perceive he had frequently made, since the beginning of our acquaintance, and which, the reader will recollect, had at times excited my indignation—puzzled and annoyed me; but there was soon to come a time when I understood and appreciated them. On that day of our outward voyage, when the ship was detained to land a portion of her passengers at Acapulco, Mr. Burton, restless at the delay, was leaning over the deck-rails, thrumming impatiently with his fingers, when his attention became gradually absorbed in the conversation of a group of Mexicans at his elbow, several of whom were of the party about to land. They spoke the corrupted 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 port some two years previous. The ship, bound for San Francisco, met with an accident, and put into Acapulco for repairs. The passengers knowing 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 New Yorkers, 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 Acapulco, and who had just landed from the steamer, attempted, imprudently, to interfere, not wishing his countrymen to be so touchy with their visitors, and was rewarded for his good intentions by receiving a severe stab in the side from one of the combatants. He bled profusely, and would soon have become exhausted, had not his wound been immediately and well dressed by a young American, one of the New York passengers, who had landed to see the sights, and was standing idly to one side, viewing the mêlée at the time Don Miguel was injured. The Don, exceedingly grateful for the timely attention, conceived a warm liking for the young man, whose ‘‘Yankee’’ quickness and readiness had attracted his attention while on board the steamer. Having given such proof of his fitness for the place as he had

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done by dressing the Don’s wound, that gentleman, in the course of the two or three hours in which the young stranger remained 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 accepted 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, besides vast grazing farms, had extensive interests in the silver mines which bordered upon his hacienda. Doctor Seltzer was deeply interested in an account of 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,’’ continued the narrator, ‘‘for there are none of us who do not feel honored by the friendship of Don Miguel, who is as honorable 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 him to his home, made him a member of his family, and before I left Acapulco, I heard that Don Miguel had given him for a wife his only daughter, 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 unconsciously revealed by the chatty Mexican. He at once, as by prescience, saw his man in this fortunate Dr. Seltzer, who had registered his name Mr., not Dr., on the passenger-list, and which name was among those that the detective had selected as suspicious. (I interrupted 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. Everything he heard made ‘‘assurance doubly sure;’’ and there was no time to be lost in deciding upon the course to be pursued in 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 determine. 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 Doctor Seltzer, doubtless always on the alert, might perceive some cause for alarm, and secure safety by flight. To go alone, under an assumed name, in the character of a scientific explorer of mines, seemed to him the surest and most 176

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discreet method of nearing the game; and to this resolve he had come before he sought us out to announce his intention of stopping at Acapulco, while leaving us to pursue our voyage without him.

chapter vi At Last—At Last As our ship steered away out 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 traveling companions, who had preceded him. These persons had been somewhat surprised at his desertion of the rest of his party for a visit to their decayed city; but when he explained 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 for curiosity. There were two or three persons from the United States stopping at the hotel, who quickly made his acquaintance, eager for news direct from home, and while he conversed with these the four o’clock dinner was announced. 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 processions of Catholics, winding through the twilight with their torches, until the moon arose and glimmered on the restless ocean. Most persons, on business similar to 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 enterprise 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 retiring 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 slumber 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 nervous man, he contrived to sleep soundly at last. He was served,

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early in the morning, 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 gentleman by reputation; and he had no difficulty 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 repast. He was warned to go well armed, as, 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 dinner 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, determined 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 uneven, and the surface of the ground more broken. Before him loomed up hills, growing higher as they retreated, some of the glittering peaks seeming to glisten with snow. A cool, refreshing air swept down from them; the scenery, although wilder, was beautiful and romantic in the extreme. Wearied 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 the grazing herds of a thousand cattle, lay at the foot of the hill, which was heavily timbered, and down which leaped a sparkling cascade, not more beautiful to the eye than promising of freshness to the pastures below, and of ‘‘water-privileges’’ to the mines understood to lay somewhere in the cañons 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 receive him he was informed that the master of the place was at home, and was soon shown into his presence, 178

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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 received, 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 researches 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 sonin-law, of whom he soon spoke, anticipating the pleasure it would give Dr. Seltzer to meet a gentleman so recently from his old home, New York. On this account he made the stranger doubly welcome. Mr. Burton was interested in his host, and liked him, perceiving 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 lovely 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, ‘‘It 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 with the news that you bring me from the States that I have neglected your comfort. Dr. Seltzer went up on the mountain, today, 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 restlessness 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 accomplishment of the object he had kept in view for two years, that, for an instant, excitement overcame him. He soon rallied, however, and at the end of fifteen minutes, when the peon came in again to announce supper, he had toned up his courage 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 member of the family had not yet returned; only two persons were present, his host, and the beautiful woman whom he introduced 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 porcelain and silverware; it did not take

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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 across the ‘‘pale specter of the salt,’’ he kept asking himself, with inward anguish, why it was that he had not circumvented 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 enthusiast. 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 preoccupied with listening 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. Seltzer in New York, but upon his answering in the negative, he could guess that he had fallen in her esteem, for she immediately 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 husband. 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 desired—when the man was entirely unwarned of company, and had no chance to put on a mask. Outwardly Mr. Burton was serene as a summer day, but inwardly his teeth were set upon each other to keep his tongue from crying out—‘‘This is 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 courteous eye met his, saw in it the first impulse 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. Dr. Seltzer might have been good-looking had his eyes not possessed the shifting, uncertain glance that plays before a soul which dares not frankly meet its fellows, and had not an evil expression predominated on his features. His face was one which would have been distrusted in any intelli180

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gent company of our own people; 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 life, a congenial sphere. Not that all Spaniards are necessarily murderers—but their code of right and wrong is different from ours. Don Miguel was an excellent gentleman, honorable, to an unusual degree for a Mexican, 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 bitter 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 warmth and sweetness; and the beautiful woman, whose soft eyes dwelt ever on the face of her husband, looked yet more lovely in the clear moonlight. (Through all the earnestness of his story, my friend dwelt 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 scientific knowledge to make it apparent that his exploring expedition was for the purpose of adding to that knowledge. Before they separated for the night, Dr. Seltzer had promised to escort him, on the following day, over all the mountainous 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 Donna, pale with grief and reproach, and of the interview which he had resolved upon with the murderer, alone on the mountainside, 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 servants, 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 whether the visitor gave up his purpose at the last moment, he could only conjecture; after some moments of absolute silence he heard the door drawn softly together again, and was conscious of being

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alone. Soon after this he dropped asleep, and awoke in the dawn to find his purse and garments undisturbed. He was summoned 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 previous 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. Seltzer’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 perfume, 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 climbing the first of the series of hills of which mention has been made. The road here was still tolerable; but when they advanced into the immediate region 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 successfully worked by the peons of Don Miguel. There were some forty of these men at work, under an overseer. Dr. Seltzer showed his companion the recent improvements which had been made; the machinery which he himself had introduced, and a portion of which he had invented; stating that, under the system which he himself had introduced, Don Miguel was growing a rich man faster than he 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 upon by the host to give every desirable information to the traveler, and here a long visit was made. Lunch was partaken of under 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 silver than any vein heretofore opened—in fact, he thought a fortune lay hidden in the wild gorge to which he referred, and he anxiously invited the scientific observation of his guest. This was just the opportunity for being alone with his man that Mr. Burton desired. It may seem strange that he proposed to confront the murderer with his guilt in this solitary manner with no witnesses to corroborate any testimony he might wring from the guilty; but the detective knew enough of human nature to know that the confronted criminal is almost 182

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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 really the 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 for the singular encounter he had devised. Leaving all traces of man behind them, the two climbed a rugged path, and entered a cañon, 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 walked 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 should have 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,’’ called out his companion, pressing after him, ‘‘but be cautious of your footing. A misstep may hurl you upon the rocks below. In three minutes we shall be in a safe and beautiful region, with our feet, literally, treading 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 continued to lead the way. The subtle perceptions of the detective, a magnetism which amounted almost to the marvelous, I have so frequently referred to, that my reader will understand how it was that Mr. Burton, thus in the van, and not looking at all at his companion, felt a curious, prickly sensation run along his nerves. He came to the narrowest 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 projection 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 moment too soon. The arm 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

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eyes which now sunk before his. An instant the foiled assassin stood surprised; then commenced 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 object. On the contrary, Mr. Burton, calm and self-possessed, despite an instant’s astonishment, pressed his adversary backward along the narrow path until they were both on safe ground, in the middle 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 astonishment was the fact that Dr. Seltzer knew him 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 detective?’’ ‘‘I 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 relieved. ‘‘I want 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 I murdered him? Humph! you must think I’m decidedly simple to be coaxed or frightened into committing myself.’’ ‘‘We’ll not waste words, Thorley. I know you, all your history, all your bad deeds—or enough of them to hang you. I 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 explanation. But I have my own reasons for desiring to keep this matter quiet—one of which is that I do not wish any premature report to alarm your accomplice, man or woman, whichever it is, until I can put my hand on the right person.’’ ‘‘What makes you think that I did it?’’ ‘‘No matter what makes me think so—I don’t think, I know. I have the instrument with which you committed the act, with your initials on the handle. I have the letter you wrote to your accomplice, claiming your reward. In short, I’ve proof enough to convict you twice over. The only hope you have of any mercy from me is in at once doing all that I ask of you— which is to give a full written statement, over your real name, of all the circumstances which led to the murder.’’ ‘‘I’m 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 184

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the unpleasant position in which he was held. Mr. Burton drew a revolver from his breast-pocket, remarking, ‘‘I will not hold you, Thorley; but just as sure as you make an attempt to get away, I will shoot you. Supposing you succeeded in getting free from me—what good would that do you? Your prospects here would be ruined; for I should expose you to Don Miguel. You would have to flee from wife, country and fortune; all you would preserve would be your rascally life, which I do not propose, at present, 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 scoundrel as you, Thorley; I fairly ache to inflict upon you the punishment you deserve. It is for the sake of others, 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.’’ ‘‘You are too fully in my power to demand promises of me. Yet this I will consent to, as I said before, for the sake of others—to let you go unprisoned by the warrant I hold against you, and never to put the officers of justice on your track. One thing, however, I must and shall do. I can not leave this Paradise, into which you have crept like the serpent, without warning Don Miguel what manner of creature he is trusting and sheltering.’’ ‘‘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 reformed and repentant.’’ ‘‘So reformed and repentant, so very excellent, that you were only prevented, but now, from killing me and tumbling me into this convenient ravine, by my own prudence.’’ ‘‘Every thing was at stake, you know. I was desperate. You must forgive me. It would not be natural for me to submit 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 last night.’’ ‘‘I had no idea you had ever seen me,’’ said Mr. Burton, willing to hear how it was that this man knew him, when he had never met Thorley until yesterday. ‘‘I was interested, once, in a forgery case in which you were employed to detect the criminals, by the examination of several handwritings which were given you. You accused a highly respectable fellow-citizen, to the astonishment of everybody, and convicted him, too. I, whom he had em-

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ployed as an agent in some transactions, but who did not appear in any manner in the case, saw you in the court-room once or twice. I accidentally found out that you were a secret agent of the detective police. When I saw you here, playing the scientific gentleman, my conscience was not so easy as to blind me. I 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 favor, and so—’’ ‘‘You visited my room last night.’’ ‘‘Yes. But, on second thought, I decided that to-day would give me the better opportunity. Had you waited a second longer, your friends would have had a hard time tracing your fate. An excuse to my father-in-law, that you had returned 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 convenient dénouement had been interrupted. ‘‘Was it chance caused you to turn?’’ he continued, after a moment’s silence. ‘‘It was watchfulness. I thought I saw murder in your eyes once before, to-day, when I met them suddenly; but as I 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 turned in time to prevent the compliment you were about to pay me. But this is wasting 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 paper and the fountain-pen which were offered 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 relaxation 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 preferred having your testimony before I brought the matter before the proper parties, therefore I came here after it’’—speaking as if a trip to Acapulco were one of the easiest and most commonplace of things. ‘‘You’re dd cool about it,’’ remarked the adventurer, eying his adversary with a glance of hate, with which was mingled a forced admiration of a ‘‘sharpness’’ which, had he himself possessed it, he could have used to 186

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such advantage. ‘‘And now, maybe you’ll be good enough to tell me if the affair kicked up much of a row.’’ ‘‘I 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 company. You must go with me before Don Miguel, and we will enlighten him as to your true character, since with him to be ‘forewarned may be forearmed.’ ’’ ‘‘Oh, don’t do that! I beg 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. ‘‘I would, indeed, rather than blast her innocent heart with such knowledge, allow you still to play your part in that little 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 may heal. It is an unpleasant duty, which I must perform.’’ Then followed a scene of begging, prayers, even tears upon one side, and relentless purpose on the other.

chapter vii Now for Home Again Dr. Seltzer 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 incontestably. It was with a pang of pity that he noticed the Donna, coming forth on the piazza with a face illumined with expectation of meeting her husband; he replied to her inquiry, that the doctor had gone down the road without saying how long he expected to be gone; and asking a private interview with Don Miguel, he at once, without circumlocution, laid before him the painful facts. Of course the Don was shocked and grieved beyond expression, more on his daughter’s account than on his own; and blamed himself severely for having introduced a stranger, without proper credentials, into his confidence. If the murder had been committed from jealousy, anger, or upon

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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 circumstances; 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 doctor wished to revenge himself upon his betrayer, a better opportunity could not occur than on this lonely road, where he might linger in the expectation of his passing. From the interview which followed between the father and his child, Mr. Burton was absent; he saw no more of the beautiful young wife, for he left the hacienda early the following morning; but her father informed him that she bore the news better than he expected—simply because she refused to believe in the guilt of her husband! Don Miguel and two of his servants 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 protect him from any danger which might threaten. For this he was grateful, 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, including the Donna’s jewels, which she had inherited from her mother, and a large sum in gold, and had persuaded his wife to accompany his flying fortunes to some 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 money or jewels, but the loss of his poor, confiding, loving child, that he dwelt upon. The Donna’s was one of those impulsive, impassioned natures which must love, even if it knows the object unworthy. No deed which her husband could 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 promised 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 accusation which he might carry back to 188

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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 oranges. 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 satisfaction 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 in time—all would be right.’’ Day was breaking when Mr. Burton finished his narrative; the rain had ceased, but a thick fog hung over the sea and land, making every thing gloomy and disagreeable. ‘‘I must go now, and awaken my little girl,’’ 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 present. 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 long ago, but I could not prove it. You shall soon be at rest about this affair. I only pray, now, for a speedy voyage, and that Leesy 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 scarcely equal to that of my companion, who yet had nothing at all at stake, while I had so much. Not only then, but at various other times during the remainder of our voyage, he expressed so much anxiety lest Miss Sullivan should be dead before we arrived home, that I, who was always torturing myself with conjectures, again revived my suspicions that she was connected with the murder. In the mean time, the sun arose 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,

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and the secluded aspect of its beauty, with this noisy wonder of civilization which scattered its fiery deluge of sparks along the path of gorgeous tropical flowers waving at us, sometimes, in long streamers of bloom from the topmost branches of gigantic trees. Nothing occurred to mar the tranquillity of the passage home. On the expected day, we landed 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. Burton’s; he was expected by the housekeeper, so that we found the house prepared 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 excitement, promised me, before I retired for the night, that to-morrow, God willing, the secret places of the wicked should be laid bare—that myself and all those interested should witness the triumph of the innocent and the confusion of the guilty.

chapter viii The Ripe Hour I arose 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 countenance wore a peculiar, illuminated look, as if his soul was inwardly rejoicing over a victory gained. However, there was still preoccupation in it, and some perplexity. Immediately after breakfast, he proposed to go out, saying, ‘‘Richard, remain here a couple of hours with Lenore, until I find out whether 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 roamed about the parlors like an ill-bred tiger. At the end of two hours my friend returned, looking less perplexed than when he went out. ‘‘God is good!’’ he said, shaking my hand, as if thus congratulating me. 190

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‘‘Leesy Sullivan is alive, but very feeble. She is scarcely able to undertake a journey; but, since I have explained the object, 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 willing, 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 confessing herself implicated in this matter? Did he think, and had he persuaded her, since she was too far gone 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 myself. ‘‘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 breaking stones or lifting barrels than to have kept idle; but, as the detective wished me to remain in the house as a matter of caution against meeting any prying acquaintance 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 extinguish. Mr. Burton had almost to carry her into the car, where he placed her on a seat, with his overcoat for a pillow. We took our seats opposite to her, and as those large, unfathomable eyes met mine, still blazing with their old luster, 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 cars moved rapidly out of the city, increasing their speed as they got beyond the precincts, Leesy asked to have the window open. The air was cold and fresh; her feverish lips swallowed it as a reviving draught. I gazed alternately at her and the landscape, 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 blueness of splintered steel. The red banner of twilight hung over the Palisades. I lived really three years in that short ride—the three years just past—and when we reached our destination, I walked like one in a dream. It was quite evening when we got out at Blankville, though the moon was shining. A fussy little woman passed out before us, lugging a large bandbox; 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. ‘‘I suppose it contains the wedding-bonnet,’’ he said, with a laugh.

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‘‘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 article of preparation, without keen pain. Yet what business was it of mine? Mr. Burton had also heard the brief colloquy, and I noticed his lips pressed together with a fierce expression as we passed under the lamp which lighted the crossing. 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, ‘‘I don’t want you to fail me now. The trial will soon be over. Brace yourself for it with all the strength you have. Now, I am going out a few moments—perhaps for half an hour. When I return, you will both be ready to go with me to Mr. Argyll’s house.’’ I was nearly as much shaken by this prospect as the frail woman who sat trembling 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 such strange circumstances—to hear, I knew not what—to learn that mystery—my heart grew as if walled in with ice; it could not half beat, and felt cold in my breast. Both Leesy and myself started when Mr. Burton again appeared in the room. ‘‘All is right thus far,’’ he said, in a clear, cheery voice, which, nevertheless, had the high ring of excitement. ‘‘Come, now, let us not waste the golden moments, 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 been discovered. Presently we came to the gate of the Argyll place, and here Mr. Burton again left us. ‘‘Follow me,’’ he said, ‘‘in five minutes. Come to the library-door, and knock; and, Richard, I particularly desire you to take a seat by the bay-window.’’ He went up the walk and entered the house, without seeming to ring the 192

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hall door-bell, leaving the door open as he passed in. I looked at my watch by the moonlight, forcing myself to count the minutes, by way of steadying my head, which was all in a whirl. When 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 by Mr. Argyll himself. There was a bright light shining from the chandelier, fully illuminating the room. In the midst of a flood of recollections, I stepped within; but my brain, which had been hot and dizzy before, grew suddenly calm and cool. When Mr. Argyll saw that it was me, he slightly recoiled, and gave me no greeting whatever. A glance assured me that every member of the family was present. Eleanor 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 surprise and displeasure. Mary rose, hesitated, 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 appearance of my whilom friends, and was calm enough to do it. Mr. Argyll 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, blooming and beautiful, the image of what Eleanor once was. Eleanor, doubtless, was whiter than her wont, for my appearance 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 herself to the spirit of her lover. Mr. Burton turned the key in the lock of 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 you a few moments ago, that I had news of importance to communicate, 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 to say. You will perhaps guess the nature of my communication, from my having brought 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 I have to say.’’ ‘‘I will be very calm; do not be afraid,’’ murmured Eleanor, growing yet feebler, for it was to her he now particularly addressed the injunction.

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I was so occupied with her that I did not notice the effect upon the others. ‘‘Mr. Argyll,’’ continued the detective, ‘‘I have never yet abandoned a case of this kind until I have unraveled its mystery to the last thread. Nearly two years have passed since you supposed that I ceased to exert myself to discover the murderer of Henry Moreland. But I have never, for a day, allowed the case to lie idle in my mind. Whenever I 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 believed I had discovered the perpetrator, I could not allow the matter to sink into silence. You remember, of course, our last interview. Some ideas were there presented which I then opposed. You know 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 feared, although you were not certain, that Richard 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 affected by what you said, and I told you, before parting, that, if you had such feelings toward the young man, you ought not to allow him to be, any longer, a 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 discovered the murderer of Henry Moreland, and can give you positive proof of it!’’ This assertion, deliberately uttered, caused the sensation which might be expected. Eleanor, with all her long habit of self-control, gave a slight shriek, and began to tremble like a leaf. Exclamations came from the lips of all—I believe James uttered an oath, but I am not certain; for I, perhaps more than any other in the room, was at that moment confounded. As the idea rushed over me that Mr. Burton had been acting a part toward me, and had taken these precautions to get me utterly in his power, where I could not defend myself, I started to my feet. ‘‘Sit still, Mr. Redfield,’’ said the detective 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 understand. I did sit down again, not so much because 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 moment, they 194

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seemed to me the eyes of a devil. All the feelings which, at various times, had been called up by this terrible affair, were nothing to those which overwhelmed me during the few moments which followed. My thought tracked many avenues with lightning rapidity; but I could find no light at the end of any of them. I began 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 professing 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 circumstances might be turned so as to strengthen the accusation. I sat there dumb. But there is always strength in innocence—even when betrayed by its friends! So I remained quiet and listened. ‘‘When a crime like this is committed,’’ proceeded 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 death—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. ‘‘He was an adventurer, self-instructed in medicine, without principle. Shortly after setting up in your village, he fell in love with this woman here—Miss Sullivan. She rejected him; both because she had a dim perception of his true character, and because she was interested in another. She allows me to say, here, what she once before confessed to us, that she loved Henry Moreland—loved him purely and unselfishly, 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 have come of it, for Henry Moreland moved in a sphere different from his, and they might never have come in contact. But another bosom was also possessed of the fiend of jealousy. An inmate of your family had learned to love your daughter Eleanor—not only to love 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

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gate of this lawn, when the young couple passed him, going out for a walk together. He looked after them with a dark look, speaking aloud, unconsciously, the thought of his heart; he said, ‘I hate him! I wish he were dead! ’ Instantly, to his surprise and dismay, a voice replied, ‘I’m with you there— you don’t wish it so much as I do!’ The speaker 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 unfortunate coincidence. The first speaker looked at the second with anger and chagrin; but he had betrayed himself, and the other knew it. He laughed impudently, as he sauntered on; but, presently, he returned and whispered, ‘I wouldn’t object to putting 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 I say. I hate him as bad as you do; you’ve got money, or can get it, 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 less 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 opinion—and had conferred with him upon the possibility of young Moreland being put out of the way, without risk of discovery of those who had a hand in 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 from 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 California was about to sail, and no better thing offered, he concluded to follow Mr. Moreland 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 suspected, he went down along the docks, took possession of a small boat which lay moored by a chain, broke the chain, and rowed down the river, completely protected by the storm from human observation. The next morning found him in New York, dress, complexion and hair changed, with nothing about him to excite the least suspicion that he was connected with the tragedy that 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 con196

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cealed 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 from the necessity of making a trip to Brooklyn to pay it. He saw nothing of him, however; perceiving that he could look into the parlor through 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 minutes on that evening. Perceiving by the light which shone from the window that the instrument was broken at the point, he at once comprehended 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, could not deny herself a stolen look at the happiness of the two beings so soon, she thought, to be made one. 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 consequences for her. Well, George Thorley escaped, and fulfilled the programme so far as to sail for San Francisco; but the boat stopping 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 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 suddenly upon 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 ascertained 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 confirm it which a court of law could possibly require. I could hang his accomplice, without doubt.’’ At the first mention of the name of George Thorley I chanced to be looking at James, over whose countenance passed an indescribable change; he moved uneasily, looked at the closed doors, and again riveted his gaze on Mr. Burton, who did not look at him at all during the narrative, but kept steadily on, to the end, in a firm, clear tone, low, so as not to be overheard outside, but assured and distinct. Having once observed James, I could no longer see any one else. I seemed to see the story reflected in his countenance, 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

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speaker neared the climax of his story, I felt like one who gazes into an open window of the bottomless pit. ‘‘Have I told you who it was that hired George Thorley to murder Henry Moreland?’’ asked Mr. Burton, in the pause which followed. It 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 bound against the door opening into the parlor, which was not locked. But another was too quick for him; the powerful 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, ‘‘It was your nephew—James Argyll.’’ 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 look blasted him. He had been writhing under Mr. Burton’s grasp; but now, as if in answer to her gaze, he said, ‘‘Yes—I did it, Eleanor,’’ and dropped to the floor in a swoon.

chapter ix Joining the Missing Links The scene which transpired in the next few minutes was harrowing. The revulsion of feeling, the shock, the surprise and the horror were almost too much for human 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 her 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 only to suffer for so many weary months, had now more self-possession than any of the others; her thin, white hand fell softly on her sister’s curls with a pitying touch; and after a time, she whispered to her some words. My own surprise was nearly as much as any one’s; for, although many times I had felt that James was the guilty one, I had always tried to drive away the impression, and had finally almost succeeded. In the mean time no one went to the unhappy man, who found a temporary relief from shame and despair in insensibility. All recoiled from him, as he lay upon the floor. Finally, Mr. Burton forced himself to raise him; 198

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consciousness 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, I never accused you—I always felt that you were innocent, and always said so. You must forgive the others for my sake. My father and sister will bear me witness that I always defended you from the accusations of one who, it is now proved, sought with double, with inconceivable baseness, to divert suspicion from himself to another’’—her voice trembled with scorn. ‘‘I never wanted to marry him,’’ she added, bursting into 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, ‘‘Never 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 to him; 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 public; I even allowed George Thorley to remain 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 unpunished by the law, I shall abide by your wish; this matter shall be kept by the few who now know it. For your sakes, not for his, I would spare him the death which he deserves; but he must leave the country at once and for ever.’’ ‘‘Let him go,’’ said the uncle, his back turned upon the murderer, toward whom he would not look. ‘‘Go, instantly and for ever. And remember, James Argyll, if I ever see your face again, if I ever hear of your being anywhere in the United States, I shall at once cause you to be arrested.’’ ‘‘And I, the same,’’ added Mr. Burton. ‘‘God knows, if it were not for these young ladies, whose feelings are sacred to me, I would not let you off so easily.’’ He 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. When he had gone, we all breathed more freely. Mr. Burton had yet much to say, for he wished to close this horrible business for ever. He took the surgical instrument which we had found in the tree, and fitted it to the

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‘‘i never accused you’’

piece which had been extracted from the body of the murdered man, and showed the family the initials of George Thorley upon it. He then produced the written confession of Thorley, which we all read for ourselves; but as it contained only, in a plain statement, the facts already given, I will not repeat them here. He then proceeded with the history of the Dead Letter, which, also, he had with him, and which proved to be in the same handwriting as the confession. In speaking of the curious manner in which this document had been lost, to be recovered in the right time by the right person, he seemed to consider it almost awfully providential. From this he went on with a minute history of all the steps taken by both of us, our journey over the ocean, the wonderful success which waited upon patience, perseverance and energy, securing the final triumph of justice; and, to conclude with, he said, ‘‘I owe, still, a good many explanations both to you, Mr. Argyll, and to Mr. Redfield. I can not lay before you the thousand subtle threads by which I trace the course of a pursuit like this, and which makes me successful as a detective; but I can account for some things which at times have puzzled both of you. In the first place there is about me a power not possessed by all—call it instinct, magnetism, clairvoyancy, or remarkable nervous and mental perception. Whatever it is, it enables me, often, to feel the presence of criminals, as well as of very good persons, poets, artists, or marked 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 now present. I had not been ten minutes with them when I began to perceive that the murderer was in the room with me; and before they had left me, I had decided which was the guilty man. But it would have been unpardonable rashness to denounce him without proof; by such a course I would throw him on the defensive, defeat the ends of justice, and overwhelm myself with denunciation. I waited and watched—I put him under surveillance. That night upon which he crossed the Brooklyn ferry to pay the money to the hired assassin, I was upon his track; I heard the angry dismay with which he accused Richard of following him, when the other met him upon this side. It was not very long after I began to investigate the case before he cautiously approached me, as he did you, with hints of the might-be-guilty party; he made me see how much to the interest of his friend Richard it would be if rivals were out of the way, and how desperately that person loved Miss Argyll. (Forgive me, friends, for using plain language—the whole truth must be told.) But I need not dwell on his method, for you must be familiar with it. I confess that he used consummate tact; if I had not read him from the first, I, too, might have been misled. He was not over-eager in the search for suspected persons, as the guilty almost always are. He did not suspect Miss Sullivan, as Richard did.

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I favored the pursuit of Miss Sullivan for two reasons; the first was to conceal my real suspicions; the next was, after finding her handkerchief in the garden, after the flight, and all those really strong grounds for supposing her connected with the murder, I began 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 James was guilty, and had to gather my proofs afterward. It was not until after my interview with Leesy, at Moreland villa, that I became convinced she had nothing to do with the murder, and that all her strange proceedings 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 James had poisoned your mind with suspicions of Mr. Redfield; for the same reason which had kept me silent so long— that is, that I 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 accomplice, and was about to start off in search of him when Richard appeared upon the scene with the dead-letter in his hand. ‘‘From that hour I felt sure of perfect success. My only anxiety was that the marriage should 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 investigations, for I was afraid that his impetuosity might cause him to do something indiscreet, and I did not want the guilty one alarmed until the net was spread for his feet. To-night, when I came 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 corroborate any points of my testimony in 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 but a brief space to dwell on earth, and I thought it would comfort her to know that no one blames her for the pure devotion which has lighted her soul and consumed it like oil which burns away in perfume.’’ Mr. Burton never meant to be poetical, but his perceptions were of that 202

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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 fruitless offering of another and a humbler woman at the shrine before which she was privileged to minister; I believe in that hour 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 dreadful evening had fatigued the invalid. ‘‘She must go to bed at once,’’ said Eleanor; ‘‘I will call Nora, and have her placed in the room which opens out of ours, Mary.’’ The young ladies retired to give their gentle attention 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 story, for we could not feel like sleeping. And before we parted for the night, Mr. Argyll had humbled himself to confess that he was led to condemn me without sufficient cause. ‘‘I loved you as a son, Richard,’’ he said, in a broken voice, ‘‘better than I ever loved 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 downcast. 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 friendless, and I wanted the girls to have a protector. I might better have left them to the care of a viper,’’ he added, 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 marriage, and I, too, murmured, ‘‘Thank God.’’ ‘‘Mr. Argyll,’’ said Mr. Burton, laying his hand on that of the other, ‘‘this terrible affair is now brought to a close, as far as it can be. Let me advise you to brood over it as little as possible. Your health is already affected. I acknowledge 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—never to refer to it again. You can yet be tolerably happy. A fair future lies before all of you, except dear Miss Eleanor. Adopt Richard as your son, make him your partner, as you first intended. I will 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 declining 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.

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I hesitated; for a moment pride rebelled; but since all is forgiven, ought it not to be forgotten? When I spoke it was with heartiness. ‘‘If you need a partner in your office, and wish me to take the place, I will do so.’’ ‘‘Then the compact is signed,’’ said Mr. Burton, almost gayly. ‘‘And now 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 unspoken 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. 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 interest in her welfare. She was much affected when he bade her farewell, for he had gained her love and confidence by his manner of treating her. The child came, and was tenderly received by the sisters. They were unwearied in their attentions to the sufferer, whose last hours were soothed by their earnest words of hope and comfort. Leesy died with a smile on her face, going out of this world, which had been so cold to one of her impassioned nature, with joy. When I looked at the wasted corpse, I could hardly realize that the fire was out for ever which had so long burned in those wonderful eyes—it was not quenched, it had only been removed to a purer atmosphere. She was buried, very quietly, but reverently, on a beautiful winter day. 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 little Nora lately; she is a pretty child, and well cared for.

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chapter x The New Life The winter passed away quietly. The sudden absence of James Argyll caused much harmless gossip in the village. It was reported, and generally believed, that he had gone abroad, on a tour to Egypt, because Miss Argyll had jilted him. Fortunately, the arrangements for the wedding were known to but few, the feelings 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 consummated. 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 termination 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 sake 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 see her 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. I have said that my feelings toward her had changed from passionate love, through intense sympathy, into affectionate reverence. I think, now, that I felt toward her a good deal as Mary did—that nothing we could do for her, to show our silent love and sympathy, could be too much—a tender regard for her wishes and habits—a deep respect for the manner 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 time a 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 her a flying visit to explain all the facts, for I dared not trust them on 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

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office-window open, but as the afternoon wore away, and the sun shone out after an April sprinkle, I could not abide the dullness of that court of law. I felt those ‘‘blind notions of the spring,’’ which Tennyson attributes to trees and plants. And verily, I was in sympathy with nature. I felt verdant—and if the reader thinks that to my discredit, he is at liberty to cherish his opinion. I felt young and happy—years seemed to have dropped away from me, like a mantle of ice, leaving 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 which I first saw Eleanor after her calamity, I turned my steps to the arbor which crowned the slope at the back of the lawn. Thinking of Eleanor, as I saw her then, I entered the place with a light step, and found Mary sitting, looking off on the river with a dreamy face. She blushed when she perceived who had intruded upon her reverie; I saw the warm color sweep, wave after wave, over the lovely cheek and brow, and I knew instantly the secret it betrayed. I remembered the arms which had once fallen about my neck, the tears which had rained upon my cheek from the eyes of a young girl, the eager voice which had said, ‘‘I love you Richard! I will believe nothing against you!’’ Oh, how sweetly the revelation came to me then! My own heart was fully prepared to receive it. Through months I had been transferring the wealth of young, hopeful love, which craves 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 toward my own, she gave but one glance before her eyes fell to hide their thought. 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 filled for youth. What happy children we were, when, late enough after sunset, we strolled back to the house and went to receive the paternal 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 excuse for delay, and all the friends expressed themselves urgent to have the matter settled. We went, on our wedding-tour, to see my mother, with whom we had a long, delightful visit. Three years have passed since then, and in that time there have been changes—some of them very sad. Mr. Argyll died about two years since, his health never 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 sufferings of others. Both Mary and myself defer a great deal to her judgment, which is calm and clear, never clouded by passion, as ours will sometimes be. 206

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We feel as if nothing evil could live where Eleanor is; she is the light and blessing of our household. The saddest affliction which has fallen upon us since the loss of our father, is the death of Mr. Burton. Alas! he has fallen a victim, at last, to the relentless pursuit of enemies which his course in life raised up about him. The wicked feared him, and compassed his destruction. Whether he was murdered by some one whom he had detected in guilt, or by some one who feared the investigations he was making, is not known; he died of poison administered to him in his food. It wrings 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. We all loved him so much! Oh, if we could discover the cowardly assassin! Sometimes I wonder if it may not have been the man whom he once so mercilessly exposed. God knows—I do not. Attempts upon his life were many times made, but his acute perceptions had always, hitherto, warned him of danger. Lenore is with us. We shall keep her until some lover comes in the future to rob us of her. She is a rare child—almost a woman now—as talented as her father, and exceedingly lovely. At present she is overwhelmed with grief, and clings to Eleanor, who is her best comforter. In our love for her we try to repay some of the debt we owe her father.

the end.

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The Figure Eight or, the mystery of meredith place

by Seeley Regester

chapter i Shadow Life I had figure eight on the brain. I dreamed it, whispered it, saw it on the wall, on people’s foreheads, counted it with the plates at table, with the stones of the pavement, the clouds in the air! Three weeks before, my uncle had been found dead in his library, fallen on the floor beside his table, a pen grasped in his stiffened fingers. It was apparent that he had died very suddenly, it was supposed, at first, from apoplexy, but, as it was soon ascertained, poisoned with prussic acid, whether purposely or accidentally, by himself, or whether by the murderous will of another, still was an open question. He had complained, in the morning, at table, of a slight headache, nothing serious,—or at least we had supposed not,—and later, after walking about in the garden in hopes the fresh air would dispel his slight ailment, he had gone to his library, as was his practice, for a couple of hours in the forenoon. No member of the household knew of any one’s having entered the room save himself, as it was the custom not to intrude upon him while in his library. Beside him, on the table, was a small salver, holding a wineglass which had been nearly emptied of its contents,—port, and in the port, that deadly potion which had done its work with such fearful swiftness. It might have been that he, being his own physician, had prescribed for himself, and, through inadvertence—for his was always a dreamy temperament, and his absence of mind a standing jest with his friends,—had dropped this horrible poison in place of the sulphuric-acid which stood not far from it upon the medicine-shelf in his laboratory. However, this, and all other versions of the affair, at present, were but conjecture. As soon as the first great shock of surprise and consternation was over, and his dead body had been borne to an adjacent room, much attention was given to a sheet of paper discovered lying upon the table. A scrawled, illegible line of writing, followed by a tremulous, irregular figure eight, was upon its face, as if in a hurried moment it had been seized to com-

municate to the living some piece of intelligence which the dying man deemed of interest or importance. This scrawl was as follows:

evidently traced by a spasmodic effort of the perishing will, even while the man was fighting for a moment of life. He had sunk and died with the pen in his hand, and this was all the record he had made. My uncle had just returned from California with sixty thousand dollars in gold—gold which had not, as yet, even passed through the mint, but which lay in dull bars of yellow richness, just as it had been melted by himself in a rude crucible, week by week and month by month of his two years sojourn in the newly discovered El Dorado. He had, in the very pride of his conquest over the ill fortune which had banished him from home, friends, and his dear studies, opened the iron-bound box and showed it to Lillian and myself the day after his welcome home. How Lillian had clasped her hands for joy! I, who read her sweet nature so truly, knew well enough that joy arose from no rapacious love of money, for its own sake, but from the consciousness that there lay the hardly-won treasure which was to free her dear father from the wretched embarrassments and anxieties which, for years, had rendered him miserable. Sixty thousand dollars then was a goodly fortune, and Lillian felt that her father was restored to her, in his old self, as she flung her arms about his neck, mutely congratulating him with a kiss. Yes, when the ten thou212

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sand dollar mortgage against the old homestead was paid off, and sundry other obligations discharged, there still would be a handsome sum remaining for the use of parent and child. And, dearest thought of all, her father now could resign the distasteful hardships of a country medical practice, and devote himself to the more congenial pursuits of finishing a partiallywritten treatise on the Nerves, and continue his experiments in chemistry, which had promised so fruitful of interesting results, but from which he had been driven by his necessities. But Dr. Meredith was dead—dead and buried! The whole country-side had attended his funeral, moved by curiosity and that love of excitement which all the circumstances of this singular case were so well calculated to arouse. Why had he died? and why, in dying, had he inscribed that single character to mystify, perplex and haunt? Hundreds had asked themselves and others the question,—but no one with such terrible earnestness as I had asked it of myself, every day more searchingly. Hour by hour, minute by minute, through the solemn days, and through much of the night time when sleep refused to visit my heavy eyes, I pondered over the mystery. That there was a deep and most vital significance in the characters traced I only too well knew. Not a pen-scratch of will or devise was found among his papers—not a line to indicate his wishes and purposes—not a shadow of information to tell us where was deposited the precious treasure which was to free the dear old home from the Sheriff’s order of sale. Every drawer had been ransacked, every secret place of deposit searched, but not a trace of the hardly won gold—not a hint of its existence. Had he hidden it away, distrusting all men, in some unsuspected burialplace? or—the very thought maddened me—had some one wrested the money from him, and he, in his despair—taken poison to end his misery over the ruin which must follow? Eight—eight—eight! That was his last precious communication, written with death tugging at his heart-strings: what did it mean? Three weeks flew by—weeks of unanswered inquiry—of the deepest sorrow to the household—of distress over the evil to come. So abstracted in my thoughts and oppressed with them had I been that I had failed to discover the danger in which I was placed. These three weeks had brought a great change in the demeanor of the community toward me. I awakened from my abstraction to read suspicion in eyes which were once kind—to feel that, in all Hampton, there were not a dozen persons who did not regard me as my uncle’s murderer! To-night I was sitting in my room, as I believed, for the last time. That day I was informed by an anonymous note—whether from friend or enemy I could not tell—that the popular feeling against me would culminate, on

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the morrow, in my arrest, and I was advised to fly. It must have been the advice of an enemy, yet I was about to take it. I knew such a step would be ruinous to myself; that it would be like announcing myself to be the guilty man; and, in case of my being followed and discovered, that it would hasten my condemnation. Yet I had reason for this course so powerful as to decide me in its favor. It was midnight. At two o’clock the night express would pause a moment at Hampton on its flying journey to New York; I proposed to take it, in such disguise that the sleepy station-master should not recognize me, and before this country neighborhood began to buzz and stir in anticipation of the event of the day, I should be lost in a city wilderness, hiding myself in a crowd, safe for an hour or a day—after that all was vague. On my table lay a letter which I had written to Lillian: ‘‘Think of me as you will, cousin Lillian. I swear to you, by the memory of your dead mother, that I am innocent. It is solely in your interest that I take the step I do. I leave you what little money I have—three hundred dollars. Your father gave it to me, as you know, to enable me to attend a course of lectures. It is yours by right. Be very saving of it, for you do not yet realize what it is to be both penniless and friendless. The knowledge, I fear, will come to you too soon, in spite of my efforts to save you from it. God give you strength to face the future and me strength to work out the dread secret of my uncle’s death.’’ The clock in the lower hall struck twelve:— no, it did not, but should have struck twelve. Its silver peal rang like an alarum through the intense stillness, and seemed such to my strained, excited ear. I was not aware that I was counting the chimes, but when a dull silence ensued after the hammer had tolled eight strokes, my pulse stopped as suddenly as the clock. Eight? yes, as the silence closed I was conscious that I had been counting. It struck eight and no more! Mind and nerves being already overstrained, this coincidence gave a new impetus to my fears, or terror, or dread—whatever may have been the feeling. Only eight! I thought I should suffocate, my heart stood still for such a time. I rushed to the window for air. It was now the first of July,—a hot, breathless night, although the moon rode high in the heavens, shedding a glory only less than that of day. The absolute serenity of the moon-flooded heaven calmed me. I began to say to myself—‘‘The clock has run down. In the excitement of this dreadful time it has been neglected. There is nothing about that which can not be easily accounted for. I will go down and wind it up.’’ It was an eight-day clock. My uncle always had attended to it himself. Since his death it had been wound but once; a servant, observing that it had run down, had attended to it. Of course it was only by the merest 214

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chance that, again neglected, it had lost the power to conclude its chime, and had ceased after eight slow strokes. When one’s mind is in a state of preternatural or diseased activity, it will seize upon the slightest thread to weave into the web with which it busies itself. I was obliged to repeat several times—‘‘It is only because the clock has run down—I will go and wind it up,’’ before I could summon courage to cross my room, open my door, and step into the dimly-lighted upper hall. I am sure that I expected to confront my uncle as I opened the door. I can hardly say whether I most hoped or feared to do so. Certain it is that, had he been standing there, in whatever supernatural guise, I should have saluted him with the one eager question which was burning in my brain— should have asked him for the key to the cipher he had left. No spirit met me, nor mortal, as I trod the glimmering length of the shadow-haunted passage, and descended the broad stairs with a step as silent as if I had been one of the ghosts which I half-expected would rise to confront me. The lower hall was much better lighted than the upper. The wide doors at either end were half of glass, and the tall form of the old-fashioned time-piece stood fully revealed in the illumination from without. A bright rift of moonlight lay across the foot of the stairs, as it struck through the parlor door, across the well-worn carpet. I had missed the ticking of the pendulum as soon as I opened my door, and was thus assured that my conjecture was correct—the clock had run down. I could not reach to wind the piece without standing upon a chair, but as none was at band I stepped into the parlor for one, with which I was returning, when a slight clicking sound arrested me and I drew back into the shadow of the door. From where I stood I could see, without being seen. A woman came out of the library—that apartment so gloomily invested with the late tragedy —a woman whose tall figure I recognized even before the rift of moonlight fell across the pale, powerful face, with its flashing eyes and heavy brow. It was Miss Miller, Lillian’s governess. She was dressed in a long white night-robe; and her black hair hung over her shoulders, as if she had been in bed and had risen therefrom. As she paused to cautiously re-close the door, her face lit up with a smile, and she muttered, half-whispering, half-aloud—‘‘I have the key for which they would give so much.’’ Then she seemed to float up the long stairway, she went so noiselessly and softly, disappearing in the upper shadows. To me she had the appearance of a sleep-walker, yet I believed her to be awake and in her right mind. Remembering many things which I knew too well, I can not say that I was so much astonished as startled at seeing her steal out of that room in the dead hour of the night. A thousand surmises stung me as with so many

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needles; but most I longed to know the secret of that softly breathed assertion. Did she speak of the figure eight and its unread riddle? or did she refer to some material key, necessary to unlock some drawer or case in my uncle’s library, of some importance, perhaps, but insignificant, after all, as compared with the inference? I was tempted to rush after her and seize her by the hair or the throat and demand an explanation of her self-revealed words. She and I were not good friends. It doubtless was she who first breathed the suspicion which had gathered strength as it spread, until now it was driving me from home and Lillian. At least, I gave Miss Miller credit for having done me this evil service. I was tempted, I say, to rush after her and wring the truth from her by violence; but a moment’s reflection showed me the hour had not yet come for me to strike—would never come, except by great patience and cunning—perhaps great suffering—on my part. I must carry out my plan of flight in order to gain liberty wherein to work. In a prison I could do nothing. It was not so much dread of confinement or ignominious death as it was the desire to keep myself free to work, which impelled me to flight. I already had tasted the bitterness of a scorned life in seeing my friends turn from me; but I had still everything to live for as long as that communication of my dying benefactor remained an enigma, and so long as my dear cousin—but of that no more here. In a few moments I retraced my steps. I did not wind the clock, for fear that another might surprise me, as I had her; but, after waiting until she had time to regain her apartment, I went to mine and hastily finished my few preparations for departure. With a workingman’s blouse over my coat, and a broad-brimmed straw hat, I considered myself sufficiently disguised for the journey. If the station-master should recognize me, he had no power to detain me, and he probably would give no alarm before morning. The ride to the city would be only of about three hours duration; and, once merged in that vast sea of human beings, I hoped to avoid recognition. In those days, photography slept undeveloped, and the one daguerreotype of my features which hitherto had graced the parlor etigere I had that day confiscated and destroyed, so that the police—who doubtless would be placed on my track—would have no better knowledge of my personal appearance than could be gathered from verbal description. Long before one o’clock I was entirely ready. It would take me but fifteen minutes to walk to the station; yet I was so oppressed by the conflicting emotions which crowded upon me, as well as by the heat of that sultry but brilliant midnight, that I could no longer remain in my room. With the traveling bag which held all I cared to take with me from Meredith 216

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Place, I again descended the glimmering staircase, and, staring up at the silent clock, which seemed to have paused in its ceaseless duty to mark the hour of my flight, passing the closed library-door with a shudder, I softly unfastened the rear door of the hall and stepped out into the garden. Tiger lay on the steps, but allowed me to pass, wagging his tail just enough to betray his friendliness and his sleepiness. Brave old fellow; he was not wise enough to understand what the world was saying of me, and he loved me still. I did not at once go out upon the road. I had an hour to spare, and ‘‘something in my feet’’ drew me on to the arbor at the end of the large old-fashioned garden. It was my cousin’s favorite resort in the long summer afternoons; and, too, as I sat there, I could see the muslin curtain faintly fluttering over her chamber-window. The arbor was draped with roses now in their fullest bloom; the warmth of the night called out their richest perfume, and they appeared to throb in the lustrous radiance which surrounded them as my heart throbbed in thinking of Lillian. But this was no moment for a young man’s fancies to bloom. I had nothing to do with the flush and sweetness of life—alas, nothing! All was stern and hard—an awful reality of sorrow and danger. My reputation gone, my life in peril—it was not of this I so bitterly pondered; I resolved to work, to wait, to scheme, to watch, never to let go my hold on the slender thread of one small fact until I had worried and shaken the truth from it. I had a clue—a spider’s thread, indeed, but still a clue, to the mystery of my uncle’s sudden death; though none whatever to the meaning of the figure eight. If I lived, both of these should be made plain as day; my cousin’s fortune should be restored to her, and I exonerated in the minds of our acquaintances. I had sat in the shadowed arbor about ten minutes when I heard Tiger give a low growl; but he did not repeat it, and I had almost forgotten it, when I saw descending the broad garden path, now in light, now in shade, as she moved beneath the mountain-ashes which lined the way, the same woman who had appeared in the hall, her tall form towering to a supernatural height as she came down the vista with her white night-dress trailing behind her and her hair sweeping beneath her waist in dark masses. Not that she was really much above the average height, but her dress, her gliding step, and the flickering light, made her appear so. My first impulse was to rise as I saw that she approached my retreat; but I could not escape her observation should I now attempt to leave it, and with a muttered word of wrath at this (to me) dangerous and unpleasant rencontre I awaited her. Presently she stood in the open arch which admitted to the arbor. I shrank back in the shadow of the vines as much as possible, but the full splendor of the moon streamed down upon her, so that I saw her with every

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fold of her garments and line of her features vividly marked in the pale light. She seemed to be looking directly at me with wide-open glittering eyes, but I was soon convinced that she did not see me. Her gaze was more as if she looked through and beyond me. I saw that she was walking in her sleep. Was it her conscience, like that of Lady Macbeth, which brought her out of what should be repose, to walk abroad with those staring eyes and features set in a strange mould of blank gloom and horror? I judged her harshly as she had already judged me. Now, indeed, I held my breath with an intensity of interest, for it was not impossible that this somnambulistic person was about unconsciously to place in my very hand the wished for thread. For a time which seemed to me long, but which could not have been more than one or two minutes, she stood at the entrance, her eyes looking straight before her, seemingly at me. Her face was colorless, her brows contracted, her whole look almost fearful. Then her eyes began to wander about the place, uneasily, but still as if she saw things which were not there, instead of the objects before her. She slowly raised her hand, and with extended fore-finger made several movements, as if counting. Then she searched the floor of the arbor with her eyes, and again moved lips and fingers as if counting the stones with which it was paved. My blood tingled in my veins as I saw a change come over her countenance—a gleam broke through its stony gloom. There grew a change in what at first seemed the meaningless movements of one who slept; I watched, with bated breath, as she advanced within, again seemed to count with fingers and lips, and suddenly dropping to her knees, began to tug at one of the flat, square stones, which, as I have said, paved the arbor. Of course, with her unaided woman’s strength she could not remove it. I longed to go down beside her and assist her. I recognized an object in her efforts. I could hardly refrain from thrusting her aside and tearing up the stone in the fierceness of my own curiosity. The thought that if I were mistaken in my conjecture, all would be lost, should I awaken the governess at this crisis, restrained me. Finding she could not lift the stone she took a pair of scissors from a ribbon about her neck and slowly pried out the earth and mortar about it. The work seemed to me endless. Persistently, but with annoying deliberation, she worked away; I almost touched her where she knelt before me; I did not believe that she would succeed in loosening the block with the little instrument so ridiculously inadequate to the task she had attempted. Cautiously I drew forth my watch—but I need not have feared disturbing her; she remained unconscious of my proximity; it was a quarter past one. She worked on; it was half past one. At two I must be at the station. When my impatience had reached a feverish height, she ran the tiny lever 218

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deep down beside the stone; the steel snapped as she pried up the mass; but the stone moved, and gaining a firmer hold with her fingers she pulled it slowly from its place and peered into the cavity thus made. I also stooped and peered. If ever in my life I expected anything it was to see the missing box—the box containing my uncle’s gold—which had disappeared before or at the time of his death. My head almost touched hers, our breaths mingled, I gave a low cry when I beheld only the hardened, undisturbed earth,—no box, nor marks of recent disturbance. The governess did not hear my cry; she plied the broken scissors into the ground with fierce impatience, but there was nothing there save the soil which yielded to her strokes. ‘‘That boy is cunning,’’ she whispered, ‘‘too cunning! too cunning!’’ she pulled the stone back, fitted it to its place, with her handkerchief brushed away the loose gravel and dirt, arose to her feet, and looking wistfully and doubtfully around the pavement, muttered—‘‘I must count again. I did not begin right.’’ That instant I heard the whistle of the approaching train, through the still night air, at the village next to Hampton, where it did not stop, and I knew that I had but six minutes to use in gaining the station. Was she going now, or would she carry her experiments farther? Yes, she turned to leave, and as she glided out into the moonlight, I darted past her, down to the gate at the bottom of the garden, out upon the road, where, running as fast as my traveling-bag would allow me, I was just in time to gain a foothold on the platform of the last car, probably unnoticed by the station-master.

chapter ii The Haunted Arbor I was no sooner seated in the flying train than all my plans were changed. Before the conductor reached me I had foregone my resolution to seek a hiding-place in the city, and contented myself with purchasing a ticket to the first stopping-place. Regarding me as some country youth, seeking employment from village to village—if he thought of me at all—the conductor gave me my ticket and change, and I had half an hour to reflect upon what was before me ere the train again paused. When it did, I descended, it whirled on, and I was left, to success or failure, as the case might be. I found myself on the edge of a large town with which I was somewhat familiar; but I had no intention of going to a hotel, or otherwise expos-

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ing myself to those who might recognize and report me. I walked up on to the main street, only to strike off again, leave the town, cross fields and woods, to come upon a back-country road or lane where I knew I might walk all day without danger. Feeling myself comparatively safe here, as the sun came up, I chose a snug fence-corner, where, with my head on my bag, I slept away much of the fatigue of the night. I was awakened by the clear sharp whistle of a farmer, who eyed me closely as he passed by to his moring’s work. It was novel to me, and not pleasant, to shrink from any one’s observation; but I felt that it was something I should become accustomed to. ‘‘Mornin’,’’ said he cheerily, as if he saw nothing very desperate in my face. ‘‘Good morning, sir. Could you tell me where I could find and pay for some breakfast? I’m traveling cheaply, you see—by my own conveyance,— as poor men have to.’’ I smiled as I said it, and he, waking to sympathy with a brother workman, jerked his thumb over his shoulder, saying— ‘‘Over yon is my house. I guess wife’ll give ye somethin’ to eat’’—and she did. When I was again on the road I had gone but a little way, when another farmer came along with a hay-wagon and offered to take me up, as far as he was going. I climbed to a seat beside him. ‘‘How far is it to Hampton?’’ I asked. ‘‘ ’Leven mile. Going there?’’ ‘‘Going through there, I suppose.’’ ‘‘Great times there just now. I was over to Hampton yisterday with some butter’n eggs, and I heard talk of the murder of the big doctor there. ’Spose you hain’t heard on’t, if you don’t belong in these parts. They say his own nephew pisened him to git his money.’’ ‘‘He must be a hard case!’’ ‘‘O, awful! allays was, they say. The people talk of lynching him. You see, his uncle did everything for him, and he jist turned ’round an’ murdered him, and stole the gold which ought to belong to his uncle’s wife an’ daughter. ‘‘What did they do with him? and what did he do with the gold?’’ ‘‘They hain’t done anything with him yit,—but they will. What he’s done with the gold is a myst’ry. ’Twas all in a box. He must a buried it, not thinkin’ he’d be suspected, and calculating to wait until he’d a chance to make off with it. They say the Doctor died so sudden he hadn’t no time to tell anything, but he tried to write somethin’, they can’t make out what, only there’s a figger, and nobody knows what it means.’’ ‘‘Curious,’’ I remarked, mechanically. My companion continued to discuss the engrossing subject while I sank 220

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into silence, scarcely hearing what he said. My mind reverted to the calamity which had overtaken Meredith Place; to its effect upon myself and others. The rough words of the farmer brought all more vividly before me. The terrible day rolled back upon me with a crushing weight—the day of the murder. As I have said, Doctor Meredith had been home but three weeks,—busy weeks to him, as he was looking over his papers, getting ready to settle his accounts, pay off the mortgages due in July, and renovate the old place. It was a beautiful, sunny day, the 16th of June. Miss Miller’s trunks stood, strapped, in the hall, waiting the morrow’s stage. I was to leave the following Monday. Lillian and I were walking back and forth on the porch, she in one of her most brilliant moods, I in one of my most stupid. Suddenly, as she teased and jested with me on my stubbornness and silence, scream after scream rang through the house, so sharp, so wild, they filled the air with a nameless terror. Lillian caught my arm. Together we rushed into the hall. Those piercing shrieks came from the library, where, pressing in at once, we saw my uncle dead upon the floor, his young wife standing over him, unconscious of everything in the first shock, crying out in that dreadful manner. Immediately Miss Miller, drawn by her screams, joined us, the servants came pouring in, a confused, helpless group. ‘‘It must be apoplexy—and heart-disease,’’ spoke Miss Miller, ‘‘bring water,—open his vest!’’ ‘‘It is vain,’’ I said, as I obeyed her, ‘‘my uncle is dead.’’ Let me pass over the succeeding hour. Physicians came, but they had nothing to do just then but to administer to the wildly-distressed wife and daughter. Miss Miller proved the strength of her nerves and resolution. She did all that could be done to calm the household and keep it in order. Neighbors came in; the doctors, with others, examined the body and took note of the room—soon with a minute, terrible and searching interest— for almost the first thing they found was a wineglass, partially emptied of its contents, in the bottom of which was perhaps a spoonful of port wine, emitting an odor speaking at once to the experienced physicians of prussic acid. This discovery was carefully withheld from Lillian and Ines. The room was thoroughly investigated and placed under lock-and-key. For the first few hours it was universally thought that Dr. Meredith had committed suicide. Those engaged in the matter looked for some written confession or explanation. As I have said, nothing was found but that tremulous figure eight scrawled upon the sheet, as if the Doctor, in the very act of swallowing the deadly draught, had felt it do its work too swiftly to allow him to finish it, and he had dropped the glass and grasped the pen, urged by an all-powerful desire to leave some message to his friends.

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When they had a little more leisure to reflect upon it, the men engaged in the investigation began to ask themselves what possible motive Doctor Meredith could have for committing suicide. His affairs were in a most prosperous condition, his health was good, he was happy in the society of a young wife—how improbable that he should have flung life away at its most golden moment! They whispered together, rolled their eyes about, scrutinized every member of the household, lingering with most suspicious looks upon myself, the poor relative, and upon the little foreign lady, the bride of a few weeks, the black-eyed Cuban girl with her southern temperament of fire and honey. Probably they saw little in either of us to confirm their vague surmises, and they gradually settled down to the conviction that the doctor had poisoned himself through carelessness. His laboratory had a good store of poisons—he was always dabbling in dangerous things—making curious experiments—perhaps at last he had fallen a victim to his own curiosity or inadvertency. In fact, at the Coroner’s inquest the verdict was that Dr. Meredith had come to his death, in all human probability, from the careless use of prussic acid. There the matter might have rested in the minds of the community, had not the tragedy been followed by the startling discovery of the disappearance of the box which contained all the treasure which the doctor had brought from California. He had kept this box in his own bed-chamber, where Lillian and myself had examined its contents but two days previously; we knew the closet where it stood, and led the executors to the spot without a thought of the dismay which awaited us, when the door was broken open, the key being lost, and no box was to be found. This second stroke of fate added anew to our trouble, not so much to Lillian’s, for she was too wrapped in grief, and too ignorant of the uses of money, to feel the force of the blow. I comprehended all it meant. Poverty, absolute poverty, for these two young creatures. Meredith Place would be sold over their heads in less than a month. No shelter, no support awaited them. Oh, that I had the energy, the talent, the opportunity to make and keep a home for them! I felt instinctively that if Lillian’s fortune was lost, Arthur Miller would desert her, and, believing that she loved him, I feared she would sink under so much wretchedness. ‘‘I must find that box! I must find that box!’’ I said to myself, day and night. ‘‘Oh, if I could unravel the mystery of that figure eight!’’ In some manner I had it impressed on my mind that there was some connection between that figure eight and the missing gold. I had no earthly reason for thinking so, yet the idea was like fire burning in my brain. As days passed I was constrained to see something new in the manner of 222

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all who approached me. Instinctively I knew the cause of it. Finally, Arthur Miller, with a cool audacity for which I knocked him down, told me that it was the general belief that I had stolen the gold and murdered my uncle. He would advise me, as a friend, to leave the country, for he looked, every hour, to hear of my arrest. As I say, I knocked him down. He could afford to brush the dust off his coat with a smile; he was speaking truth, for once, and he left me to the bitter consciousness of it. Of course they would suspect me! was I not an idle fellow! Had I not been an adventurer? Could any one tell any good of me? Was not my father a wicked and dissipated man before me? Did not the village still remember when I came, ragged and rough, to my uncle’s,—that benevolent man who had warmed the viper in his bosom only to be stung to death at last! I could imagine just what they were saying and thinking. Oh, God! Lillian would hear all this, before long. Would she, too, suspect and condemn me? They had locked up, for safe keeping, the sheet of paper with the figure eight upon it, but I saw it always, as plainly as if I held the page in my hand. Was that figure the key to the crime and mystery? I must decipher it! Ruin impended over me—aye, worse yet, it impended over her I loved—over Meredith Place! ‘‘Dying, look’’—so much of the scrawled message it had been easy to decipher. Oh, that the failing sight, the cramping muscles had but retained their vigor a moment longer, that the remainder of this solemn testament might have been made plain! Look, where? If the box had been stolen by the one who poisoned him, then, of course, my uncle himself must have been unaware of its whereabouts, and the message could not have related to that. Still, I felt that it did refer to it. The doctor had been a person with many singular ways and habits; he might have taken a fancy that his fortune was not safe, and himself had hidden it in some unfindable spot, unaware of the catastrophe impending over him. This idea was so improbable that I could never entertain it for many consecutive moments, ever returning from every speculation on the subject to the same dull feeling of despair. So entirely was I lost in these recollections that I groaned aloud, forgetful of my companion, till he jogged my elbow inquiring if I were in pain, when I started to find myself in company with a stranger, jolting along over the rough country road. ‘‘My head aches,’’ I said, in answer to his question. ‘‘I took a nap on the dew this morning and have neuralgia, to pay for it.’’ ‘‘Must be more keerful of yerself, young man. You’ll grow more prudent

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as you grow older. But I turn off, here,—yonder’s the road to Hampton; you’re about six miles from there now. If they catch that Joe Meredith, I’m going to bring my wife and children and come over to see him hung. It’ll be satisfaction to see such a rascal got out o’ the way. Good bye, stranger. Hope you’ll get over your neurolagy.’’ ‘‘He’d cure with a hempen application to my neck, if he knew who I was,’’ thought I, as he turned his horses’ heads, while I jogged on towards Hampton. I was now in the vicinity of home, so that it behooved me to be careful in meeting people on the road; and I soon took to the fields and woods, slowly making my way, by uninhabited routes, until I found myself in the glorious old woods which bounded the north and east of the Meredith estate. I will state my reasons for so abruptly abandoning my flight to the city and returning upon my course. The incident of the preceding night appeared to me of sufficient importance to warrant my changing my plans. I believed that Miss Miller had, or thought she had, a clue to the mystery, and I resolved to place myself as a spy over her movements. Difficult as it might seem to enact the part of spy, when I was obliged to keep myself concealed, there would also be advantages in my position. The woman was an artful and talented one; I never had, in a three years residence under the same roof, pretended to understand her; I knew that she was afraid of, while she hated me; and in my absence she might betray herself and her purposes in a hundred ways upon which she would not venture under my observation. However, it would be necessary for me to have an ally. In the woods where I now skulked, stood a cottage belonging to the estate, inhabited at present only by an old woman whose son had worked the farm the previous summer, but had now gone West to try his hand on land of his own. His mother was to come to him when he was fairly settled and able to send for her. In the meantime, through my good-nature, in the Doctor’s absence, she had been allowed to occupy the cottage rent free; she was also the recipient of many a tid-bit from the kitchen, while I had a double claim upon her gratitude by having assisted her son to emigrate, and by assiduously nursing her through an attack of rheumatic fever. I had chopped wood and built fires for her with my own hands, had steeped many a cup of tea for her, and rubbed her creaking old joints till my own muscles ached. For all this she had been garrulous in protestations of gratitude. I was now about to test its quality. Lingering in the vicinity until assured that she had no visitors I approached the open door to find Gram’me Hooker knitting peacefully, her old face bathed in the July sunshine. ‘‘Doctor Joe, be that you!’’ 224

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She always called me Doctor Joe, though I was hardly entitled to the dignity of the prefix. ‘‘It’s Doctor Joe, himself, gram’me.’’ ‘‘I heard tell you’d gone away, an’ I felt powerful bad, for I said to myself, why should the innocent flee before the wrath o’ men? The wicked may prevail for a time, but the Lord is mighty, and his arm is long.’’ ‘‘Then you truly believe me to be innocent, gram’me?’’ ‘‘Doctor Joe, I know your heart. It’s tender as a gal’s; you could never do anythin’ cruel. People may go on as they like—I shall allas stand up fer you, come what will.’’ ‘‘Thank you, gram’me, thank you, most heartily. You are the first who has told me so. Now I will make known my errand.—It was to ask you to hide me in your cottage, to keep my presence here a secret, so that I can keep myself out of prison while I take steps to prove myself innocent, and perhaps, to save Meredith Place to those two helpless young things.’’ ‘‘Poor critters!’’ sighed gram’me, ‘‘my heart aches for ’em. You come inside, Doctor Joe, and I’ll set on the step and keep a look-out. You’ve no idea what a fuss it’s kicked up—your clearin’ out last night. The hull place is in an uproar. Everybody says you’re guilty now. They’ve sent the constable on to track you. I was over to the house this mornin’. Miss Lillian was a-crying as if her heart would break. That governess o’ hern, she put her arm around her an’ tol’ her not to mind,—she didn’t see how she could cry after a man who had killed her own father.’’ ‘‘What did Lillian reply?’’ I eagerly inquired. ‘‘Bless her sweet soul! she don’t believe you done it. She said so up an’ down, in a fit of passion, I tell you; but that woman, she just smiled as if she pitied her. I felt like flyin’ up, myself; but ’twarn’t my place; so I only whispered to Miss Lilly that I thought as she did, an’ we’d stick by it. She went herself then and brought me a strawberry-pie, and you shall have it for your dinner, Doctor Joe.’’ ‘‘Thank you, gram’me; I’ll share it with you. Now, what I desire is to stay here quietly in the day time, and to go out nights as much as is prudent, and watch the old place, inside and out. I feel as if I should make discoveries. And I believe you can help me very much, gram’me, by keeping me informed of what happens in the village and at the house, and by doing errands for me.’’ I could see that she was delighted at the confidence reposed in and the service asked of her; her crooked back straightened itself with a consciousness of new responsibilities. She hobbled about and got lunch for me while I kept guard. Fortunately gram’me’s visitors were few and far between; Lillian and myself comprising nearly the entire list. She spread some bedding for me on the floor of the garret, and thither I retired to prepare my-

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self for another vigil. I slept several hours, awaking at twilight, drank the tea which gram’me Hooker had in readiness, waited awhile, impatiently, restlessly, then, between the hours of nine and ten, set forth to revisit the scene of last night’s adventure. It was still some time before I dared approach the garden. I waited until all the lights of Meredith Place were extinguished, calming my feverish mood by gazing at Lillian’s window. When all was quiet within and without, I opened the gate and stole forward to the arbor. My purpose was to anticipate Miss Miller. I felt that she knew or suspected the box of bullion to be hidden beneath its pavement. Two theories were present in my mind to account for her having visited the place in her sleep. Either she was privy to the fact of the gold being hidden there, and had been so affected by the guilty secret as to be thrown into the somnambulic state by an uneasy conscience; or else, she merely wondered and conjectured, like others, and had been drawn there by some transient fancy during the restlessness of a slumber disturbed by the dark shadow which rested over the household. It may be thought, that, in comparison with the loss of a beloved uncle, of Lillian’s father, the loss of this box was trivial, and that my anxiety to decipher his dying words was disproportioned to what the result would be should success attend my efforts; but the future welfare of my young cousin depended, in many ways, upon the recovery of the treasure. I brought with me, on this night, tools more efficient than a pair of scissors. Counting seven stones from the door-step, I pried up the eighth, with only a few moments labor;—there was nothing there. I carefully replaced it, brushing away the loose soil, as Miss Miller had done before me. Then I counted eight from the door-way to the left, and lifted the stone, with the same result:—then eight to the right—and so on, for over an hour, until almost every combination which would make an eight had been tried. ‘‘I have come on a fool’s errand,’’ I muttered to myself, wearied and disappointed. ‘‘Building up hopes on the dreams of a sleeping woman is silly work.’’ I rested a few moments, strengthened myself with a look at my cousin’s white-curtained casement glimmering in the moonlight, counted out eight in a new direction, and was stooping low over the stone, prying it up with my pick-axe, when a shadow fell suddenly and silently athwart the pavement, and starting up, the stone fell back to its place, and I confronted Miss Miller. I do not know which of us was most confounded. She was not asleep this time; but was dressed in her day attire, with a veil thrown over her head, and she, too, had a pick-axe in her hand. I rather think she must have been the more startled, for she screamed aloud,—the first time I had ever known of her losing her self-possession enough to scream—and shriek226

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ing as she fled, she threw her axe into a bed of carnations, and ran toward the house. It was not long before I saw lights moving, and heard the voices of servants; it was time for me to retreat, and stooping to keep in the shadow of the hedge, I gained the gate, closed it noiselessly after me, and made my way back into the fields. I would have liked well to grasp and hold the intruder, to wring from her, in a moment of terror, the object of her nightly visits to the arbor; but she had eluded me too quickly, and now that others were alarmed, my safety lay in flight. ‘‘She will not re-visit the arbor alone again to-night,’’ I said, as if that were a solace to my own disappointment. ‘‘I will ‘leave no stone unturned,’ ’’ I continued, plunging into the ghostly woods. ‘‘But I did leave a stone unturned—perhaps the wrong one,’’ jesting bitterly at my own ill-luck. I was quite certain that the axe had struck upon something different from earth under that last stone; it was maddening to be driven from it just at the moment of suspense,—but thus it was, and I dared not return that night, while at the same time I felt how fatal it was to delay another twenty-four hours, now that one person, if not more, was aware of the nature of the attempt.

chapter iii The Governess A few paragraphs will suffice to state all that is necessary to be known with regard to the career of my uncle, Dr. Meredith. His father had been a physician before him; a successful one, and had left this very old stone homestead and its broad acres, with considerable other property, to his son, of whom he had high hopes, seeing how fond he was of the pursuits which had always had such fascinations for himself. But, the first Doctor had been a worker and a practical man; the second was a dreamer and an impractical man in many things necessary to an outside prosperity. The plain country people among whom his practice lay, were afraid of him. He was not broad enough in his humor, coarse enough in his jests, nor quack enough in his treatment to give them complete satisfaction; so their patronage was bestowed on worthier aspirants, and my uncle lived very happily with his beautiful and high-bred wife, unmindful that the golden thread of prosperity was slipping out of his hands, glad not to be called

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away too frequently from his darling experiments in the laboratory, and his still more darling wife and child. Little Lillian was the wonder and glory of the neighborhood. It was a sight worth speaking of when any one had seen her, or her mother— one the reduced image of the other. They rode out nearly every fine day, and the trim little carriage, the glittering harness, the jet-black ponies, and equally jet-black driver, never failed of awakening the same interest and curiosity, while the lady and child were regarded as only a little lower than the angels. Lillian had long, bright hair which rippled down to her waist, a fair, fair face, and splendid dark-hazel eyes which blazed like stars. You see, I describe her, instead of her mother. For, was she not ever, is she not still, the central idea about which all others revolve? It was Lillian who flew, like a gleam of sunshine, to meet me, when the lumbering stage left me, a penniless orphan-boy, stranded on my uncle’s doorstep and my uncle’s bounty. She was then ten and I fourteen. I was poor, ill-dressed, and bad. I wondered that she could be so kind to me. My father, although I, too, was a Meredith, never had been anything but a disgrace to his family. A spendthrift, with no settled occupation, he had married an uneducated woman, who yet had a heart which he could break, and who had died in poverty when I was six years old. After her death I was confided to the care of such persons as my father could induce to keep me for small compensation. When my board-bill remained too long unpaid, I would be turned adrift, and then he would find me another home, equally wretched with the last. Thus I had lived, in a city too, exposed to all the associations besetting a boy who spent the most of his time on the street, until I was thirteen, when my father, also, died, writing, on his death-bed, a letter to Dr. Meredith, which resulted in my being sent for by him, and adopted into his family. I did not then realize how great must have been the generosity, how keen the sense of duty of my uncle, in bringing a child like me into his house, allowing me to sit at his board, to enjoy, under restriction, the companionship of his daughter, and in devoting so much of his time to my neglected education. The patience with which he strove to eradicate my vices and encourage my virtues I was then too young to appreciate. I was ungrateful. I fretted under this unaccustomed restraint. My new life would have been intolerable had it not been for the boundless passion I cherished for my cousin. From the moment my eyes fell on her I had exalted her to a niche in the neglected temple of my soul where I daily knelt before her image worshiping her as something supremely beautiful and holy. ‘‘He is too much like his father,’’ my uncle would say, with a sigh, when I had deserted my studies for some reckless piece of mischief, or the society of the workmen on the place. ‘‘If he has been made wrong we must remake 228

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him,’’ my aunt would answer, bending such a gentle, pitiful regard on me, as melted me, secretly, to remorse and good resolutions. I did mean to be good, I did try; but I was like my father, and I was the victim of a most pernicious training. If Lillian, so happy, so pure, could have dreamed of my struggles, my agonies of shame, my resolutions made only to be broken, she would, perhaps, have held out her little soft hand to help me. But she regarded me, generally, with a shy curiosity mingled with a slight degree of aversion for the ‘‘naughty boy.’’ Her evident natural craving for child-society and liking for me was held in check by opposing feelings of doubt and mistrust. I resented this bitterly while I worshiped her none the less passionately. My heart was softer toward Mrs. Meredith than any other living person. Alas! before I had dwelt a year under her soothing influence, she was snatched from us all, dying suddenly of a prevailing fever. Her death was a terrible calamity. It made me very wretched; but when I looked into my uncle’s face I saw a shadow there which I felt would never lighten. I was very lonely the succeeding year. Lillian and I were separated more than ever. Except at table we seldom met. Possibly the mother, on her death-bed, warned my uncle to be cautious of allowing an intimacy to spring up between us, for he seemed very jealous of his child, and evidently had placed her, and the young lady whom he had procured as governess and companion for her, under limitations as to the extent of their friendly offices towards me. He did not intend to harden me, nor to rob me of the womanly influences which I secretly craved; he but sought to protect his own, while doing no injustice to me. He did not neglect me; in all his troubles, he gave daily attention to my studies, but there was a mechanism in his instruction which taught me, instinctively, that his heart was not in his work. In the meantime another shadow was creeping over Meredith Place— the gaunt shadow of poverty. While his wife lived, the Doctor had indulged in a liberal and elegant style suited to her habits and tastes; she died just in time to escape the knowledge that he had lived up all his means, even to selling a portion of the farm-lands properly belonging to Meredith Place, and that his income from his profession was ludicrously inadequate to the expenditures of the place. Now, instead of seeking to enlarge his practice, he shrank more into his library and laboratory than ever. His intercourse with his own family was principally confined to the table. In vain Miss Miller, Lillian’s governess, sought to entertain and amuse him, to draw him into the parlor after tea, or into a walk on the lawn with his little daughter and herself. Young as I was at that time, I possessed a natural acumen which made me keenly sensible to the arts and graces practiced by this woman upon

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the unconscious master of the house. Often and often I amused myself both with her skill and audacity, as well as with the mild, innocent indifference of my uncle. Sheathed in the panoply of an impenetrable grief, her cunning arrows glanced from him totally unfelt and unperceived. It was so now—but would it always be so? I did not like the idea of Miss Miller ever becoming Lillian’s mother. The mere apprehension that this might be the result of her position in the household, made me dislike her. You may rest assured she was not slow to return this aversion: you may be equally sure that she held the best cards, and that I was powerless to gainsay her misrepresentations. She was a young woman whom one of her own sex would never have elected to the place which she now filled,—for a woman would have read her character by intuition; while she was just the one to dazzle and deceive a man. Accomplished she doubtless was; of a good family, too, and with superior recommendations; handsome, likewise, with black eyes and hair, a sparkling smile and elegant figure. But, there was indomitable ambition written on the smooth, broad forehead and rather heavy brow, and a light deep down beneath the surface-smile of the dark eye, which was both subtle and bold. A woman not too modest, with talent for any kind of a sharp game in life, and with a restless temperament which always would be prompting to action. Why should such a woman settle down into the quiet routine of Meredith Place? I felt quite sure that her duties as governess to one apt and loving little pupil were not her most engrossing occupations. However, as I have said, she held the winning cards. What could a lad, with an unhappy reputation and unpleasant manners, do, in the struggle with a person of her position? If I was too sharp; if she felt that my curious regard was upon her when she was making herself all that was attractive and sympathetic to the mourning widower; if her cheek often flushed under the wicked look I forgot to suppress, she had her revenge. I felt that my uncle liked me less with every day of my stay with him; and Lillian, that sweet, affectionate child, gradually shunned me as if I were something vile or dangerous. I could not endure this. I had the Meredith pride, if I had not the Meredith dignity. The United States took a fancy to enlarge her possessions about that time; the Mexican war passed from rumor into reality; my long-cherished purpose to run away from a home which I enjoyed upon sufferance only, took tangible shape. At fifteen I was a drummerboy marching in the van or lagging in the rear of my regiment, following the stars-and-stripes to tropic-skies, my fancy gorgeous with visions of a land of flowers and beauty, my ambition sweeping upward towards the 230

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gold eagle of promotion,—the suffering and ennui of Meredith Place sinking back into the far-away, lighted by only one ray of heavenly light,—the ever-present memory of my cousin Lillian. For her, I would win glory and renown; for her my name should become associated with great deeds; my enemies should rescind their opinions, and triumph should be mine. In the meantime, I marched away to privations, hardships, evil company and many temptations, leaving my relatives entirely ignorant of my destiny, and thinking this crowning act of my life, this running away in the night, without farewell or word as to my purposes, only what was to be expected of me.

chapter iv Meredith Place, in Shadow Two years thereafter I re-entered the large square hall of the old stone house. The door stood open, as it always did in summer-time; the door at the rear also stood wide, and a breeze, rich with the perfumes of the

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flower-garden, was wafted towards me as I entered. No one had noticed my approach, which gave me leisure to observe how all things remained unchanged during what seemed to me so long, long a time. The ivy waved from the tower, the cat lay sleeping in the sun on the mat, the old settle was ranged along the wall, the pictures hung there—all as if it were only yesterday I had deserted them. A broad beam of the declining sun shot through from the back entrance, touched, it seemed to me, with the color and fragrance of the old garden which I had once loved so well, and my heart cried out, with the cry of a child for love, forgiveness, welcome. Oh, that I had a mother, or a father! oh, that Lillian were my friend—my sister! oh, that even my uncle regarded me with justice, if not tenderness! But, the broad beam crept forward and sought me out, showing me the dust, and stains, and tatters of my faded army blue. My uncle had not approved of the war, and it was not likely that he would approve of my part in it, insignificant as that share had been. Involuntarily I turned to the mirror set into the wall, and glanced at the tall, stripling form, looking taller and thinner than it should from the emaciation of sickness and pain—the yellow skin, the hectic color on the cheek, the faded uniform, the broken arm still in its sling—my right arm, the bone of which had been so shattered as to have been saved only by the surgeon’s careful skill, and which threatened never more to be of any great service. Why had I wandered back here? I had no claims upon my relatives; I was not loved by them. It would be better to steal away unannounced—with one backward glance to give up Meredith Place forever—than to yield to that weak craving of my heart which had led me here. I was about to turn, at this suggestion of pride, when a shadow fell athwart the sunshine filling the door, a light step sounded, a young girl advanced into the hall a few paces, when, perceiving me, standing there like a beggar or worse, she was surprised into dropping the roses from her hands, and almost into a scream. A young creature, glowing, lovely, material—not a vision unsubstantial as a dream. I recognized my cousin Lillian only at the second glance, such a charm had those two years worked upon her. Neither a woman nor a child; indescribably fresh and radiant, like the roses she had been gathering; plenty of color in her cheeks; her eyes, so dark and bright, flashing with surprise— I can even remember the dress she wore, although our sex is said not to remark such things. But, to me that vision always has remained as a picture, perfect in all, even in tint and color. The floating lilac muslin, the rosy sash, the white shoulders gleaming from a golden cloud of curls— my heart rose up in my throat and choked me. I could not speak nor stir; while she, her alarm subsiding, gave me a searching look, and as the light of recognition dawned over her face, I saw neither anger nor dislike. 232

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‘‘Is it you, cousin Joe?’’ I held out my left hand; still, I could not speak. I always had loved my little cousin, but this young girl was a new creation, and to hear her call me by name with that soft voice, to feel her clasp my hand with that eager pressure, sent a thrill through my veins which was like the quickening of the dead. In that moment I was born again to new resolves and aspirations; but it always was my fate to appear at a disadvantage. I could not answer; and when she glanced at my wounded arm I blushed like one guilty of some wrong. ‘‘Poor Joe! We heard you were wounded at Vera Cruz. Is it bad?’’ Touching lightly the sling. ‘‘Bad enough, Lillian,’’ I managed to say. ‘‘So you heard of me?’’ ‘‘Yes, papa heard, a few months ago. Besides, we saw your name in the papers. You were reported to have been very brave.’’ She smiled, and I blushed yet deeper. ‘‘Is your father very angry with me?’’ ‘‘I think he will be glad to hear you have come back.’’ ‘‘Is he well, Lillian? is he married again?’’ ‘‘Married again?’’ echoed my cousin, with a gay laugh—the idea was a novel one to her; the next instant her face clouded over, and she added sadly, ‘‘he will never marry, cousin Joe. He never forgets, for one hour, my dear mamma.’’ ‘‘Forgive me; I always blunder, you know.’’ Here some one stepped out from the drawing-room, a lady, dressed in black silk, with black hair and eyes, who chilled the sunshine for me— Miss Miller, looking not a day older, strong and triumphant as ever, casting upon me a glance of cool dislike and inquiry, as if I were an intruder whom she had a right to thrust from the hall. ‘‘Miss Miller, here is cousin Joe,’’ cried Lillian, appealingly. ‘‘Ah,’’ said the lady, with the slightest possible bow to me; ‘‘does Doctor Meredith know of his arrival?’’ The inference was that if he knew, he would disapprove of it. Lillian and I both felt the meaning in her icy tones. I was so weak from sickness and weary with my long journey that I had no courage to renew the combat just then; I began to tremble, and the warmth and strength which had come to me with the revelation of Lillian’s beauty and kindness, deserted me at the time when I needed it most. ‘‘Sit down,’’ said my cousin, drawing me towards the settle. ‘‘Joe is sick, Miss Miller. Look at his arm. Papa must doctor him up.’’ ‘‘Perhaps. If such is his judgment. In the meantime, you had better announce the arrival to him. No doubt he would desire to be informed of it, Lillie, my dear, if he knew how you were committing yourself.’’

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I chafed at this reproof of my cousin, but she flew away, looking back with a smile, returning in a few moments with her father, and crying before he had an opportunity to speak, ‘‘He has promised to cure you, cousin Joe—to take care of you until you are well. He looks so ill, doesn’t he, papa?’’ Her gay words took away all formality from the meeting, which I had dreaded even while I sought it. My uncle called me ‘‘his poor boy,’’ and said, with a sad, weary smile, that he would kill the fatted calf, if he had one to kill, but that his fatted calves had gone long ago, and there were no new ones to take their place. From this I gathered a hint of his poverty. It was not many days before I learned the worst. The pretty carriage and the jet-black ponies were gone; the sable groom, along with other of the old family servants, had been sent to look out new homes for themselves; a pinching economy reigned in the house, and, worst of all, heavy mortgages hung over Meredith Place. Then it was I began to wonder why Miss Miller still remained. I had reason to believe that her salary was in arrears, and it could not be pleasant for her to share in the privations to which the Doctor silently submitted, and which Lillian was too young and buoyant to greatly heed. If she really loved Doctor Meredith with a true woman’s love, which made her willing to serve him to her own detriment, and to share his poverty in case he should yield to her constant influence and make her his wife, I should feel more respect for her than I had yet felt. It might be that, beginning with the ambition to be the mistress of Meredith Place, she had learned to love the peculiar and interesting man, still in the prime of life— the quaint thinker, the earnest scholar, the accomplished, although oldfashioned gentleman. If noble looks, fine personal gifts, talents, and a pure heart, could win this woman’s regard, without money, here was the man to gain her affections. She herself had passed that bloom of youth when a girl expects a choice of suitors; she could not be far from thirty years of age, although looking twenty-five, and with that showy style of features and manners which would keep her looking no older for some time to come. It has been said—I do not reaffirm it—that a woman thinks more of marriage, of a home and settlement, than of any and all other advantages. Miss Miller doubtless came to Meredith Place with the purpose to find such settlement there; at first she was unaware of the debts burdening the fine old estate, or the real poverty of its owner; she knew only that it was a grand place and the family one in which it would be an honor to enter. When she slowly discovered the true state of affairs she probably had already allowed her feelings to dwell too fondly on its master. The Doctor 234

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was a fascinating man, even to his own sex who had intelligence to appreciate him, his singularity and originality adding to the interest which surrounded him. I was so much of an invalid during the fall and winter succeeding my return as to be fit for nothing but to lounge about the house. My uncle treated me with more kindness than ever, there being a touch of fatherly tenderness in his ministrations; and I learned to love him, next to Lillian. Vacillating as were my resolves and many my faults, I had the grace to love those whom I loved with a fervor, a passion, a devotion which made up the great part of my impulsive nature. I longed for a man’s strength that I might work for him. I bitterly regretted the luck which had flung my good right arm powerless to my side. Day by day I could see the march of anxiety, the advance of trouble, yet I could not prove my willingness to take up the burden, since I could find nothing to do suited to my health and the crippled condition of my limb. The Doctor would flee from duns and the threatening aspect of creditors, deeper and deeper into the intricacies of his laboratory, which afforded him his sole comfort. Miss Miller was so very patient and very devoted that I almost forgot my suspicious dislike of her. She kept the gloomy old house cheerful with a seemingly spontaneous gayety; it rang with the music of the piano, and her own magnificent voice; and, no matter how simple and unvaried the table-fare, she presided with the same festive ceremonies. She even began to develop a taste for chemistry. When she found that she could not keep the master of Meredith Place out of his laboratory by the exercise of the natural sorcery of her sex, she followed him into that mysterious den where the practice of various black arts went on continually. With pretty little screams and starts she would combine and dispart the elements, stifle herself with gases and stir the golden fires under the crucibles, cleanse bottles, fill retorts, blow tiny bellows, glance over learned treatises, listen to long lectures, so gracefully, so bewitchingly, that I marveled at the blind composure of my dear uncle under it all. In fact, the Doctor regarded her with something of the same affection he gave to Lillian; all the passion he ever had felt for woman as lover or wife slumbered in the grave of her he had lost. Still, Miss Miller did not despair; that I could guess from her deportment. I was glad when she took to chemistry, for it removed her Arguseyed surveillance from me, hours at a time, when I could be happy in my arm-chair or on my lounge, looking at Lillian, listening to her singing, watching her fingers busy with the needle and her embroideries. I had begun the study of medicine. My uncle advised it, as I was unfitted for active employment; and I would have been rash and ungrateful to throw away the opportunity to read under such an instructor. I did not

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like it; on the contrary I had no taste for it; but I had no other way of proving my desire to please him, and my resolution to become industrious and reliable. Thus affairs drifted slowly on, until the world at large, and the idlers of Hampton township and village began to discuss the marvelous discoveries of gold in California. From the very first rumors which floated about, until his final decision was made, my uncle showed more interest in this subject than he had in anything since his wife’s death. All the romance of his nature took fire, as he read and mused over the accounts from that wonderful country. Being a geologist as well as chemist, he felt a keen desire to examine for himself, by the light of science, the fascinating developments of the new El Dorado. He wanted to be free from the mortifications which hampered him, to shake off debts, duns, and depressing memories, to plunge into a new life—and, to make money. He would have this longed-for adventure, and, at the same time, he would lift the shadow from Meredith Place and set it once more to glowing in the full sunshine of prosperity! Thus he felt and thus decided. Miss Miller opposed him with dismay. But, when she satisfied herself that she had no power to keep him, she yielded, only winning this concession,—that, on no account, should he be absent more than two years. In the meantime, she would promise to remain that length of time, keeping charge of the house and continuing the studies of her young pupil. As for me, I was to continue to abide in the house, affording it the protection (!) of my newly-sprouting beard, and making use of the splendid library of the Doctor to perfect myself as far as mere reading could enlighten me, in a knowledge of my future profession. A third mortgage was placed on Meredith Place, giving my uncle the means to provide for our subsistence during his absence and to pay his passage on one of the vessels which, as spring came on, began to turn their prows towards the land of gold. Dr. Meredith was thus among the earliest adventurers, and soon becoming known as a man of science, his knowledge and services were quickly brought into requisition. His letters were of absorbing interest, though not very frequent. The wild, the mad, the strange, peculiar and astonishing aspects of the new life were pictured for us with a vivid pen. The gambling-hells, the street-murders, the incredible prices of the necessaries of life, the hardships of miners, the destructive fires, the ‘‘fever’’ for gold, with the varying aspects of the disease, the sudden growth of the canvas city, all the novel, and wicked, and pathetic and outrageous lights and shadows of the picture were touched for us, and we hung over his letters as over some thrilling romance. Before many months he began to an236

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nounce that he was coining money almost as fast as he could desire. With a forethought for which he had his reward, he had expended a portion of his restricted fund obtained by the mortgage, every dollar which could be spared, in the purchase of quinine. His supply of the much-needed and fabulously-dear drug, united with his skill as a physician, and the constant demand upon his services, for which enormous fees were paid, soon placed him on the high road to wealth. Miss Miller felt that she was about to reap the reward of long and patient waiting. I could read it in the flushed cheek and sparkling eye. At the end of the first year came a remittance, with directions to pay up the arrears of her salary, with various small debts made in the village, leaving a surplus which enabled us to indulge in a few luxuries. Lillian declared she would have a new silk dress made full length like Miss Miller’s, and a bonnet like other young ladies:—no more hats for her! Her governess laughed and consented. Indeed, she took great pains with Lillian’s summer toilet, causing a variety of pretty dresses and mantles to be made up, and gloves, scarfs and all the little ornaments of young ladyhood to be provided. I enjoyed the sight of my beautiful cousin in these becoming toilettes. For the first time in my life I was really happy. Our life was most peaceful. I had the consciousness of duty performed, for I was a close student, and was rewarded for my perseverance by becoming deeply interested in and fond of my medical studies. I was regaining the use of my arm; my health was improving, and with that, my looks also, as my mirror told me. I loved Lillian quietly, with intense but calm feeling; she was pleasant and friendly with me; and Miss Miller let me alone. Yes! I was happy, for a little, flitting time. In the middle of the summer Miss Miller began to talk about her brother Arthur. He had been overworking himself, through this hot weather, studying law in a New York city office. She had advised him to come to the country for a two months’ vacation. She had seen so little of him of late years—and he was her pet; her favorite; the youngest of the family— she felt as if she must have him near her. If she could find a boarding-place not too far away, where Arthur could be comfortable— The young mistress of Meredith Place put on quite a matronly air, as she assured her dear governess that she should not listen to such a proposition,—Miss Miller’s friends and relatives had the freedom of Meredith Place. How should we all feel with her brother boarding at a strange house? Miss Miller kissed the sweet face held up with such animation, and as she finished her embrace I met her eyes darting at me a peculiar, searching glance. I blushed, for I knew that I felt unwilling to have another,

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a stranger, a young gentleman, intrude upon our quiet happiness. She smiled as I blushed, and all of a sudden all my old distrust and hatred sprung up full-armed. Her smile said as plainly as words, that she read me, and my foolish hopes—that she plotted against me, and that now, as ever, she held the winning cards. In a few days Arthur Miller became our guest. From the instant I met his eye and touched his hand, I hated him a thousand times more intensely than ever I had hated his sister. I confess that my impulses are not to be relied upon; that I am not well-governed; that I was madly jealous of him,— and yet, withal, I am certain that I had true grounds for my dislike. Jealousy sharpened my glance, but, in this instance, did not discolor it. Arthur Miller was two or three years older than myself—young enough, but at that age, giving him immense superiority in the eyes of young ladies—a superiority of which I was keenly sensible. He was very handsome, as far as features, form, and complexion could make him so. To me he was never tolerable looking, because I hated the smooth smile, the red lips formed for treacherous words, and the bold, bright eyes, so like his sister’s. He dressed elaborately, was graceful, self-possessed, and his silken mustache was ‘‘sweet to see,’’ I suppose; I could not appreciate him. My clothes were shabby and old-fashioned, and I had even outgrown them; I was not graceful, and had little self-possession under such disadvantages. Still, I did not under-rate myself. I was handsome, too—or would be in a year or two. My face was an honest one, and his was not. I saw that he was pleased with Lillian’s exquisite beauty; I knew he had resolved, before he had been under the roof of Meredith Place one evening, that he would do his part in furtherance of his sister’s desires and designs—whatever these might be. All was plain enough to me. Doctor Meredith was coming home, rich. Miss Miller, not satisfied with the expectation of becoming the sharer of his fortune, was eager for her favorite brother to ‘‘feather his nest’’ also. It would be pleasant for her to bring about a marriage between him and Lillian. They could all live under one roof, enjoy together the fruits of their labors,—while I—was it reasonable to suppose that Meredith Place would be a happy home for me, when these changes had transpired? Already I began to feel the old desolation;—already I was a wanderer, in imagination. Arthur Miller had not been our visitor a week before Lillian neglected me for him. It was natural she should do so. He had the charm of newness, and a thousand other charms. He was gay and attractive, making the acquaintance of dozens where I would not have found time or way for one. The village young people began to find out what a charming haunt the 238

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old brown villa was. We were invited to pic-nics and evening parties made for Arthur Miller and Lillian Meredith. The pretty toilettes did good service. We gave entertainments in return. Lillian was intoxicated by this first sparkling draught of social enjoyment. She had lived so very secluded that this gayety had the power of novelty;—and then she was so lovely and so sweet in her manners that she was flattered and petted almost beyond bearing with equanimity. I went to all the merry-makings because my cousin insisted, and because my jealousy would not allow me to stay away. It was misery to see them together; yet I could not remain at home, poring over my books, and imagining those two enjoying each other’s society. My constant wish was for the two months to elapse, when Miller would return to the city. His vacation passed, and more. Then Miss Miller announced that Arthur was so delighted with the country, his health so much better here, and it was so much easier for a young man to obtain a start in his profession in a village than in a city, he had resolved to open an office in Hampton, and remain at least for the winter. I saw Lillian smile and blush at this intelligence. The programme was carried out, the office secured; and Arthur, although no longer a guest, became almost a daily visitor at the old mansion. I felt that Miss Miller had acted dishonorably in thus throwing her brother upon Lillian’s attention, during the absence of her father. If she really believed Arthur a suitable and acceptable companion for her pupil, she should at least have waited for the sanction of her father’s presence. It was hardly fulfilling her duties, as she had promised and assured, to permit and encourage such an intimacy during Doctor Meredith’s absence. Lillian yet was only touching upon womanhood—sixteen that summer—and to inveigle her into an attachment, perhaps an engagement, appeared to me, under the circumstances, the basest of treachery. If I had liked the young gentleman and approved of him, I should have felt the same. As it was, I hardly knew what course to pursue. Putting all else aside, my own desires or hopes, I could not reconcile myself to seeing my cousin in the nets of these two spiders. It would not do to write and say as much to Doctor Meredith, since he had more confidence in Miss Miller than he had in me. After much hesitation, I wrote, early in the winter, begging him to come home as soon as convenient, but giving no special reason, except that Lillian had become a young lady, and Meredith Place needed a master to keep admirers in awe. His intention was, to return in the spring, and this letter could not much shorten his term of absence.

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chapter v In Light It was May when Dr. Meredith reached Meredith Place. My letter had found him involved in business which he could not immediately desert. Probably he attached no great importance to its injunctions. A telegram from New York informed us of his arrival and gave the ladies of the household opportunity to order a festal dinner, and to adorn themselves, as ladies will, on such occasions, to give welcome to the long-absent master. As I sat on the porch which commanded a view of the road, looking to see the old coach rolling along the blossom-sprinkled way, pink with the apple and peach blows, Miss Miller also stepped out for an observation. For a moment she was unaware of my presence and I had full opportunity to read her face, which wore an eager, passionate, expectant look, betraying all her hidden love and hope. She was dressed magnificently, in black velvet, low on the shoulders, with brilliants clasped about her bare neck and arms. In her black braids she wore only a bunch of apple-blossoms. Her cheeks, usually rather sallow, were red as a young girl’s. She must have expended all her hoarded salary on this extravagant dress so unsuited to her position. When she saw me she started, biting her lips in a momentary embarrassment. ‘‘The stage is late,’’ I said, rising; ‘‘where is Lillian?’’ ‘‘Oh, she is at the front gateway. She will meet her father there.’’ I went out and joined my cousin. I knew that Miss Miller had planned to meet Dr. Meredith alone, where she would dare to betray a tender agitation at the meeting, and when, in the excitement of the moment she might involuntarily allow him to perceive not only what a splendid woman she was, but how deeply interested she was in him. So, let it be! Since Lillian was lost to me, the affairs of the household might quietly slip into the hands so long awaiting authority. My own plans were laid, as well as they could be, in my situation. As soon as my uncle was settled at home, and I had rendered an account of my stewardship, I would leave Meredith Place forever. I would not say that I had left it forever, but such was my resolve. I would go into some hospital in New York or Philadelphia where I could receive instruction in return for my services; I would be a good physician, an honor to the old line; while, as for the rest, heaven knew!—life appeared stale and unprofitable enough. I trembled as I stood silently by Lillian’s side. I had not been alone with her for days and weeks. He was always in the way. Today, however, he kept 240

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his distance. Miss Miller had too much tact to allow him to be too suddenly intruded upon the notice of the long-absent father. ‘‘You are very exclusive, of late,’’ remarked my cousin, with a half pout, as she leaned over the gate, looking up the road, and not at me. ‘‘You are not my old Joe any more.’’ What a fool I was to be pleased with these words! When Arthur Miller was away, she could find leisure to coquet with me! I despised myself for the thrill of pleasure which ran through me, and fighting it down, answered quietly— ‘‘I’ve been very busy. When the Doctor is safely home, I expect to take my departure, and I have my preparations to complete.’’ ‘‘Cousin Joe, are you going away?’’ she asked quickly, turning and laying her rose-leaf hand on my arm. I thought she looked grieved, that the tears sprang to her eyes, and I never could bear the way she had of saying ‘‘Cousin Joe,’’ without losing all resentment, so I answered much less bitterly than I had felt a moment previous— ‘‘I must go. This is no longer home to me. I must work, and I must go where work is to be found.’’ ‘‘But, Cousin Joe—’’ Then the rattle of the wheels was heard, and Lillian sprang outside the gate, forgetful of all; a cloud of dust rose up into the pink and white blossoms which made one long bower of the country road; the galloping horses came into sight, and the driver, with a style and flourish meant to do honor to his passenger, and to Meredith Place, drew up before the entrace. I saw the Doctor leap out, and turn to assist a young lady who had sat by his side; but Lillian had seen nothing saving her father’s dear face, and she clung to him so fondly, with tears and laughter, that he had finally to disengage her loving arms. ‘‘Lily, my child, here is another who needs a welcome home. Call her Inez, or mother, or Mrs. Meredith—what you please—only be friends with her, for my sake.’’ ‘‘Father! what do you mean?’’ My cousin turned, for the first time observing the one who stood there, a girl not much older than herself, small, slight, with a rich, dark complexion, purple-black hair, and eyes of dark and lustrous splendor, of which we had but a glimpse before the lids fell and the lip began to quiver. A timid, confiding, affectionate creature, one could guess from the first. ‘‘She is my wife,’’ added the Doctor, not without a slight embarrassment; ‘‘I will tell you all at the first opportunity, Lillian. In the meantime, she is weary with her long journey, and needs your kindness.’’

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A moment more my cousin hesitated; the struggle was written on her face; but something in the trembling lip and downcast eyes of the stranger, overbore her surprise and pain; she flung her arms about her father’s wife, as she had about him, and kissed her. Dr. Meredith smiled on the two, children together. Then he found time to recognize and greet me, which he did with a cordiality of a kinsman in heart. ‘‘You are tired,’’ said Lillian, keeping her arm about Mrs. Meredith’s waist; ‘‘we will go in at once. You shall drink a cup of tea before you go to your room.’’ ‘‘Aye,’’ said the Doctor, preceding us to the old mansion, looking its best now, in its May dress of roses, ‘‘tea for the weary! But, where is our dear Miss Miller? She has had experience; she will know what to do for my wife.’’ ‘‘Here I am, Dr. Meredith, at your service,’’ answered the governess, stepping in from the side door, opening on to the porch, from which, doubtless, she had witnessed the scene at the gate. She shook hands with him, smilingly, and touched the little fingers of Mrs. Meredith. A change had passed over her face since I scrutinized it on the porch. I could perceive the rouge on her cheeks now, for all natural color had forsaken them. She compelled her voice from trembling, but it sounded hard and cold; her eyes glittered like steel; I did not care to meet them, after the first glance, and she avoided looking at me. She was conscious that I understood her humiliation. She wore the velvet dress and brilliants to dinner, over which she presided with her usual majesty, having been requested to do so by Mrs. Meredith, who pleaded fatigue to excuse her timidity at too soon assuming her wifely honors. When dinner was over Miss Miller made the excuse of a severe headache to retire to her room for the evening. It was not until his wife also was asleep in her chamber that he told Lillian and me the brief story of his courtship and marriage. A few weeks before he sailed he was called to attend a Cuban gentleman very ill of fever at one of the hotels of San Francisco. He was afraid, from the first, that his patient would die, but did everything in his power to save him, even to giving him almost constant personal attendance. Won by this kindness, the gentleman, when he knew that he must die, confided to the Doctor something of his circumstances, expressing his anguish at leaving his daughter alone, without money, in that reckless, frightful city. He had been a merchant in Havana, and had lost his whole property in an unwise commercial adventure, and driven alike by despair and mortification, had taken his only child and sailed for the land of gold, expecting there to re242

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trieve his ruined fortunes. Instead, he was stricken with illness, and about to die. ‘‘Promise me you will be as good a friend to her as you have been to me,’’ cried the dying man. ‘‘I do promise you;—so far as I can prevent, by my friendship and assistance, no harm shall befall her. I will care for her as if she were my own child.’’ The Cuban gentleman died in peace, and the Doctor was left with this pretty, clinging, weeping girl, looking to him as her only friend. He could have taken her to Havana, on his homeward way, and restored her to her relatives, but Inez declared, with many tears, that those relatives had not treated her properly at the time of her father’s misfortunes. To get rid of his embarrassing burden by marrying her soon occurred to the perplexed doctor. It was a man’s way of getting out of the dilemma. I will do my uncle the justice to say that I believe he made Inez his wife more out of regard for her welfare than from the desire to appropriate her youth and beauty to himself. He believed she would be a pleasant companion for Lillian, and that he could care for her so as to make her contented. That he ever felt for her anything beyond an admiration for her pretty ways, I do not think. She could not assume the place once held by Lillian’s mother. To see the two young creatures together, each heightening the other’s beauty by contrast, was a treat. The second day had not passed before they were like sisters. The Doctor’s grave face would lighten, as he looked at them, ‘‘putting their heads together;’’ banded with jet and waving with gold. On the second evening Arthur Miller ventured to call. The report that the old Doctor had brought home a young bride, had flown through the vicinity; he had heard it before he came, I knew. My uncle was friendly to him, as Miss Miller’s brother; but took no fancy to him—instead, told me, next day, carelessly, that he did not like the young man as well as his sister. ‘‘Neither do I,’’ I said, with more emphasis than I intended, ‘‘but Lillian holds a different opinion, and it was this I was thinking of, when I wrote you, last winter. Miss Miller is ambitious, and would favor the idea of a union with your family.’’ ‘‘Ah,’’ looking perplexedly at me with those bright eyes of his, which always could see everything but what was directly before them—I must take notice—I must take notice! But, don’t judge Miss Miller, my boy. She is a most excellent lady, and has done much for my Lillian.’’ We were standing inside his laboratory, near the door, when this was said. I heard the rustle of silk a moment later, and opening the door and

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stepping into the hall I saw Miss Miller passing rapidly along to disappear in her own room. A few days later Miss Miller announced her determination of leaving— her young lady was ‘‘finished’’ as far as she could finish her—she returned her charge to her father’s hands, along with the keys of the house and all the other responsibilities she had assumed. My uncle and cousin both warmly urged her never to leave the Place, but to remain with them always, an honored member of the family.’’ ‘‘There is enough for all. You, who helped to carry us through the dark days, ought to remain to share our prosperity,’’ said the Doctor heartily. He little understood the scornful smile which wreathed her mouth in answer. She began to make her arrangements to depart; not very hastily, for, since neither the man himself, nor artless Lillian, suspected the change which had clouded over her sky, she could take her time to settle up her small affairs, without any disparagement of her dignity. I could see that Inez was glad she was going. Her brother continued his visits; he told us that he liked Hampton; was getting into business, and had no wish to leave it. He was determined to secure the prize for which he had come; his sister was disappointed, but there should be better luck for himself. So I construed his thoughts. I, too, was getting ready to leave Meredith Place. My uncle had remonstrated, but I had urged the necessity of attending lectures in the city, and he had finally consented, but forcing upon me the means for supporting myself, while doing this. ‘‘You’ll make a doctor equal to any of the Merediths yet, my boy!’’ he said, when he had examined me as to my progress during his absence. Thus affairs stood at the moment when a dark night of catastrophe shut all of the light suddenly from Meredith Place.

chapter vi Two Holes in a Handkerchief I was curious to know if Miss Miller had recognized the person who so unexpectedly confronted her in the arbor; while it half maddened me to realize that she would have opportunity to return and examine the place, while I, in my enforced concealment, could do nothing. Doubtless she had returned, after her first fright was calmed, and the household had subsided 244

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into rest, and finished the work which I had begun. If truly there had been something under that last stone—if the ironbound box had been the object against which my pick-axe had struck—I might resign myself to the disastrous fact that Miss Miller had won in the game; for she certainly would go back and discover the treasure, and dispose of it to suit herself, before the morning. Whether, having found the box, she would deliver it to its rightful owners, or whether, being concerned in its disappearance, she would only secure its farther concealment, I could not decide. I was too much excited to sleep, while I felt that my brain demanded rest from the constant strain upon it of conflicting thoughts and theories. Morning came slowly. Gram’me Hooker was an early riser, and when I heard her moving about in the room below, I was glad to go down. ‘‘You haven’t slept, Doctor Joe,’’ she remarked, after scanning me for a moment with her bright, old eyes. ‘‘If you don’t take keer of yourself you’ll be down sick.’’ ‘‘Well, what then? who cares?’’ ‘‘I thought you was jest for working. How kin you spy about and keep watch over them unprotected lambs, if you lay yourself up in bed with brain fever?’’ ‘‘True, gram’me; I thank you for reminding me of it. After breakfast, if you will make some excuse to visit the mansion and hear the news, I promise you I will try to sleep while you are gone. Miss Miller had a fright last night; find out what the servants have to say about it. And pray, see Lillian if you can, dear gram’me, and tell me how she looks—if she is well!—how she feels!—and if Arthur Miller spent last evening there. Can you remember all that?’’ The old woman shook her head with a meaning smile. ‘‘I want to know, myself, how Miss Lillian fares,’’ she said, ‘‘and I’ll be hoppin’ mad if I l’arn that that young man is hangin’ about her yet,—for I don’t like him any better’n you do, Doctor Joe. Yes, yes, yes, my feet ain’t so spry as they used to be, but my head’s quick enough yet. If there’s anythin’ goin’ on to the house, trust me to find it out, Doctor Joe. And do you jest stop frettin’, and take a good sleep while I’m out, for I shall likely be gone some time.’’ I gave her some money to buy such food as was necessary now that she had a boarder, and as soon as the few dishes were put away, she took her basket and crutch, hobbling away on her various errands. As she expected to visit the village as well as Meredith Place, I knew that it must be several hours before her return, and endeavored to keep my promise about sleeping, by crawling back to my garret-bed, shutting my eyes, and beginning to count, over and over, up to a hundred and down again. The disci-

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pline proved effectual, so that, after a time, I slept. I was awakened from this slumber by a murmur of voices in the room below. Fortunately, I was sufficiently master of my perilous position as soon as I awoke, to remember the necessity for keeping quiet. At first I supposed Gram’me Hooker had returned and some acquaintances had stopped in passing. But, after a few moments, not hearing her piping treble, and believing that I recognized the voices, curiosity overcame prudence. I moved, on my hands and knees, as softly as possible over the loose boards which formed the floor of the garret; but, despite my caution, a board rattled, and the conversation below instantly ceased. ‘‘Rats!’’ spoke some one, with a little nervous laugh, after a moment’s silence. I was right—the speaker was Miss Miller. The murmur began again; I pressed my ear to the floor, but I could distinguish nothing of what was said; I soon, however, made out the other voice to be that of her brother Arthur. The blood was rushing and throbbing in my ears, but I compelled my pulses to quiet that I might hear what was being said. The plastered ceiling beneath me effectually prevented any consecutive word from reaching my ear; feeling assured these arch conspirators were plotting the still greater misery of my cousin Lillian,—that they were uttering in secret council, matters of overwhelming importance to me and mine, I was yet constrained by that small barrier from hearing what was said! As soon as I dared I crept forward to the narrow closed passage which led down, by a few steep stairs, to the apartment beneath. I knew that the door at its foot was closed, and I made my way down, and stooping, peered through the small aperture through which the oldfashioned latch passed. I saw the brother and sister, he, sitting in a chair by the table; she, standing before him. She was growing angry, I could tell by the red spot on her cheek, and by her raised voice. ‘‘You are a greater fool than I took you to be, Arthur Miller,’’ were the first words I made out. ‘‘I knew you were a coward, but I did not give you credit for being a ninny, too.’’ ‘‘Gently, gently, my sweet sister,’’ he answered, meeting her fiery glance with one of his mocking smiles. I could see only her profile as she stood between me and the open door, but I saw her mouth tremble with scorn and rage, and her black brows lower. ‘‘You played for the stakes, and lost,’’ continued the brother, sneeringly; ‘‘why should you be so severe upon me, who also have had the misfortune to lose?’’ ‘‘But you have not lost! All is still in your own hands. What I am angry with you for, is for giving up, when we are so near success.’’ ‘‘A fellow’s neck is about the most precious trifle in his possession. He would, naturally, like to keep that whole, even though his heart be broken. 246

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When the chestnuts are too hot, one must drop them. That poor dog of a cousin of hers is in a happy condition, isn’t he?—excuse me from wishing to burn my mouth like that.’’ ‘‘Coward!’’ she said again. ‘‘Oh, well, sis; I leave it all to you. You have courage enough for both. More courage than discretion, I think. To tell you the plain truth, I think you’ve hurried this matter too much. Why couldn’t you let well enough alone?’’ ‘‘Arthur, you will never understand me! As if I could have lived—as if I could have lived’’—she uttered vehemently, then checked herself. ‘‘Never mind the past,’’ she added in a moment; ‘‘what we have now to do is to consider the future. We must be prepared for any emergency which may arise. We must be cool, and above all, courageous, and must be united in action. Everything depends upon our acting in concert.’’ ‘‘By-the-bye,’’ said the young man, still smiling up into his sister’s excited face, ‘‘if you had not such a grudge against her, I believe I should prefer the step-mother to the daughter. She’s a beauty, that Spanish girl is, and has a soul of fire. Such eyes!—I dreamed of them last night. ‘O, saw ye not fair Inez, she’s gone into the West, To dazzle when the sun is down, and rob the world of rest.’ She’s my ideal of feminine charms. I don’t wonder the old Doctor capitulated, besieged by arrows from such eyes. Bad for you, sis, but what might have been expected!’’

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‘‘How dare you!’’ cried Miss Miller, lifting her hand. ‘‘Arthur, you must be careful! I have done a great deal for you—supported you—educated you—given you all you have. I have endeavored to take you into an equal partnership in this business,—but you must beware! Never speak of that woman to me. I will not bear it!’’ ‘‘Oh-h-h! I must be discreet,’’ laughed her companion, his eyes falling before the blaze of her own fierce orbs. ‘‘Don’t look at me that way, sis, or I shall be anxiously inquiring if there is any more prussic-acid about.’’ He laughed at his own cold-blooded jest; as for me, I should have sprung out upon him in fury, to think that he could refer in this reckless manner, to the tragedy which had desolated Meredith Place, but was withheld by an intense curiosity to note the effect on Miss Miller. Her upraised hand sank to her side; instead of blazing out into new anger, she spoke more calmly than she had yet done— ‘‘What do you mean by that, Arthur?’’ ‘‘Nothing at all,’’ was the half-sullen reply. ‘‘So it was not the box, after all?’’ he added, changing the subject. ‘‘No. We were mistaken from the beginning. But I shall begin again,—I have the key. All I want is time. I wish I knew, certainly, who it was in the arbor, last night. I could have sworn it was he. This much is certain—some one is on the track beside ourselves. We must be a thousand times more cautious than before. I hope, and shall believe, that it was only some one who saw me visit the place, and who thought he would examine for himself. I don’t feel easy about one thing, Arthur:—I am afraid that I walk in my sleep, as I once had a habit of doing, you remember. I have not done so for many years; but several times, recently, I have found my night-dress, in the morning, wet with dew and soiled with sand and earth, as if I had wandered about in it out-of-doors. It was so yesterday morning. I may do strange things while in this somnambulic state, and may be watched by others. I feel the danger so great that I am like a person walking on ice so thin that it may break at any moment, and let him down. I have persuaded Lillian to sleep in my bed, for the present, on the front side; so that if I rise I shall disturb her, for she is a light sleeper. She has promised to waken me if she finds me somnambulizing. I wish I knew who that person was, in the arbor, last night.’’ She glanced about her, with a startled air, as she made the last remark, like one, who, having received a great fright, is still nervous and expectant of another shock. For an instant her eyes rested on the latch, and it seemed to me that she was gazing directly at me. If I had obeyed the impulse which seized me I should have thrown open the door and announced myself as the person about whom she was so anxious,—but ever arose before me, in 248

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these imprudent moments of excitement, Lillian’s face imploring me to remember her wrongs and not to foolishly peril her future welfare. ‘‘I’ve not so much confidence in your powers, sis, as I had once,’’ began the young man, with a weary yawn. ‘‘I’ve half a mind to throw up the whole matter, and return immediately to New York. I’ve trifled away a good deal of time already. Perhaps I might have made it pay better. I expected some substantial results this morning.’’ ‘‘You are too impatient. Rome was not built in a day.’’ ‘‘I think I’ll return to my legitimate sphere.’’ ‘‘Then you give up Lillian Meredith entirely?’’ He laughed again.—‘Cela depend,’ he said, lightly. ‘‘I understand. But here comes mother Hooker. Good morning, gram’me. You seem alarmed at finding your cottage taken possession of, in your absence. I was walking in the wood with my brother. Miss Lillian made me promise that, if I came near your house, I would stop and inquire how you were. Finding you gone, as I was tired, we sat down to rest ourselves, thinking you would soon be in. How is your rheumatism, this morning?’’ ‘‘Easy as an old shoe. Tell Miss Lily her strawberry-pie was drefful nice, and I’m much obleeged. I’ve been to the house myself, but I didn’t see her, as she wasn’t down,—and I went on to the village for a leetle sugar and tea and a bit of smokin’ tobacky. She gives me money for that, reg’lar, Miss Lily does, though she can’t abide the smell of it herself, bless her kind heart!’’—rattling on with whatever came into her head to say, while she darted furtive glances about the place to assure herself all was right. I had to make a sudden retreat up the stairs when she hobbled directly to the door, at which I was playing the ignoble part of eaves-dropper, pretending that she wished to hang her hood and shawl inside. She saw me in my retreat, received my signal that all was right, closed the door again and began a gracious conversation with Miss Miller, to whom, usually, she said as little as possible. ‘‘And is this the young gentleman as they say is engaged to Miss Lily?’’ I heard her ask, presently. ‘‘It’s a blessed thing the poor child has a friend that can comfort her, and can support her, too, now that her property is all gone. She won’t have a roof to cover her head many days longer, an’ it seems like a stroke of Providence that she should be provided for beforehand, don’t it, now?’’ I learned eagerly down to hear the reply, but a laugh from Arthur and a cough from his sister was all I heard. I knew that gram’me was playing a hypocritical part, for my benefit; it would have gone sorely against her inclinations to see Lillian mated with any one but me; but she guessed that

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I was wild with the desire to know if an actual engagement existed, and was trying to enlighten me. Her little ruse failed, and soon I heard the two bidding her good morning and going away. ‘‘They’re out o’ sight now; but I’ll jist shet and lock the door and pull down the curtain before you come down,’’ she called, opening the staircase door. ‘‘We shall smother, this warm day. Besides, some one might listen at our heyhole, as I did at this. Better leave the door wide, and keep a sentinel at the post,’’ I responded, coming down. ‘‘Well, gram’me, what’s the news?’’ ‘‘Do you know, my heart was in my mouth when I heard talking and saw them two in here? I trembled so, I thought I should have to set down on the step. What are they about? Some mischief, I’ll warrant! Did you hear anythin’ they said, Doctor Joe?’’ ‘‘Yes, a good deal. Nothing satisfactory, however. Just enough to convince me that I am not all wrong in my suspicions.’’ ‘‘Your face is as red as fire.’’ ‘‘I’m excited, gram’me. Besides, I had to stoop over, to look through the latch-hole. They said so much, it made me eager to hear more. But, what about my cousin? and Mrs. Meredith? and what is the news?’’ ‘‘I can’t never call her Mrs. Meredith,’’ said the old woman, shaking her head. ‘‘That babyish little thing couldn’t never take her place. She’s sick this morning, they say—cried herself into a fit o’ sickness. Miss Lily, she’s a waitin’ on her, so I didn’t speak with her myself. There never was nothin’ more surprisin’ than the way Miss Lily holds out. I ’spected she’d be the fust to break down. It’s beautiful to see how bravely she bears her trouble, as sweet and patient as if her heart wasn’t completely broke.’’ ‘‘Don’t, don’t,’’ I said, the tears rushing into my eyes. ‘‘Oh, gram’me, it is too cruel that I am driven from her side at a time like this. I don’t mind her suspecting me, hating me;—I only feel so sorry that I can not help her bear her misfortunes. I tell you truly, gram’me, if I believed Arthur Miller was true and noble, that he really loved her, and not the money he expected she would have—that he would step to her side like a man, care for her, provide for her, love her, marry her, I could joyfully see her his wife. All I desire is her happiness. But I distrust that man. Now that she is poor, he will forsake her. After winning her affections by the most devoted attentions, you will see, he will leave her in the hour of her sorrow. He spoke of returning to New York.’’ ‘‘Thank goodness, let him go; you ought to be happy, Doctor Joe, to get rid of him.’’ ‘‘But Lillian—she loves him—she will be so wretched!’’ ‘‘If he goes, he won’t deserve her, an’ it will be better for her to be mis’able for a time, than for all her life. Mebbe he won’t go.’’ 250

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‘‘What did the servants say about the fright last night?’’ ‘‘Oh, they said the Governess saw a ghost. They say she was dreffully scared. It was in the arbor; but when the men went to look they couldn’t see nothin’. They asked her if it was his sperit she saw; she wouldn’t tell, but they knew it was Dr. Meredith’s ghost as couldn’t rest in his grave on account of his bein’ murdered. Cook says she wouldn’t go into that garden at night for all the world,—nor one o’ them servants wouldn’t do it—not even Mike.’’ ‘‘All the better for me,’’ I thought. ‘‘If they are all frightened away, I shall have the field to myself.’’ After the humble dinner, prepared by gram’me, she took her knitting and sat in the door, talking constantly, for her own amusement apparently, as she was neither hurt nor disconcerted by my silence. I heard no more of what she said than of the murmur of the stream that ran beneath the window; being intensely occupied with my own thoughts; and these were not satisfactory, for they brought me to no conclusion. I had, before the visit of those two to the cottage, arrived at a belief; but their conversation, instead of strengthening it, had thrown me back into doubt and confusion. I took from the breast-pocket of my coat a handkerchief, which, I held in my hand and examined for the ten thousandth time, to reassure myself. It was a lady’s handkerchief, a bit of hem-stitched cambric, smelling of patchouly,—at that time a new and favorite perfume,—which I had picked up from the floor of the laboratory on the afternoon of the day of Dr. Meredith’s death. It lay underneath a tier of shelves along one of which were arranged bottles containing various highly concentrated acids, and two or three labeled ‘‘poison.’’ In the cambric two small holes were burned, where a drop of acid had fallen. In one corner of the handkerchief was written the name of its owner—Annie Miller. I had confided to no one the fact of my having found this handkerchief. I had heard, without change of countenance, Miss Miller and the servants inquiring for it, as if it were an article of some value. I knew that a dollar would buy a better one, yet I did not wonder that its owner felt troubled at its loss, and was trying to hunt it up. I now stared at this handerkerchief, mentally comparing the theory which I had adduced from it with the facts of the conversation I had overheard. They did not agree as I wished to have them. My theory had been that Miss Miller, aided and abetted by her brother, had first robbed Dr. Meredith of his gold, and then poisoned him. I believed that, taking advantage of his friendship, she had chosen the occasion of her approaching departure to ask him, playfully, to drink her health in parting, and had killed him while she smiled upon him. My enmity to this woman gave me no excuse for accusing her of this

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horrible treachery and crime. I blamed myself for the conviction which had fastened upon me; and when I could not shake it off, I invented excuses for her, which should palliate her crime in my mind. I said to myself: ‘‘She did not murder him for his money; that would be too cold-blooded. Miss Miller is not cold-blooded—not avaricious. She is ambitious; she loves money because it confers power—and she loved the man she murdered. She killed him in a fierce paroxysm of jealousy. The shock which her pride and passion both received when he brought home his girl-wife affected her brain—rendered her, in a measure, insane,—and she committed the deed, urged by a wild frenzy of love for him and hate for her!’’ It was not quite so common, in those days, as it now is, for judge and jury to throw the vail of ‘‘insanity’’ over every form of wickedness; but I, greatly as I had disliked Lillian’s governess for the manner in which she had ignored me and my claims, misconstrued my motives, and constituted herself a spy upon my actions, could not bring myself to believe her guilty of this hideous sin, except under the impulse of a brain suddenly thrown from its balance. Miss Miller was one of those women born to be a ‘‘queen of society.’’ Poverty had deprived her of her empire, but the spirit of a ruler still was there, and I could understand and pity the crushing disappointment which must have been hers, when, after years of patient endurance, in the very flush and glow of anticipated triumph, she had found herself discrowned by a simple, clinging, timid girl. I could imagine the scorn with which she criticized the little Cuban wife—the hatred with which she viewed her pretty airs of fondness for a man whom she could no more appreciate than a fire-fly could measure a star. I could picture her desperation at being driven out into the world to commence anew her dreary career as governess, after believing herself the mistress of Dr. Meredith’s heart and home; and I could believe, that, urged by all this passion and fury of humiliation, disappointment, despair, and anger,—she had committed, in a wild hour of temptation, a deed for which a life of remorse must be the return. I had believed this; and farther, that her brother had suggested the previous robbery, in which she had acquiesced, not only to gratify him, but to complete her revenge upon the young wife, by leaving her helpless and penniless, without friends or relatives, a stranger in a strange land, in absolute poverty, and with no resources by which she could help herself. As for Arthur Miller, there was no reservation in my condemnation of him, and yet I did not believe that he was a party to the murder. He was too cowardly for that. Nothing so bold and decisive ever was accomplished by him. No; he had nothing to do with the death of Dr. Meredith; but I had firmly believed that the box of gold was in his possession, or concealed where he knew of it. 252

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Now, as I pondered the conversation I had overheard, I felt that neither of them had any certain knowledge of the lost treasure. Miss Miller had boasted of a key; but it was evident that they, like myself, were vainly searching for the missing box. Neither did there appear to be any hint of the awful guilt which I attributed to her, in Miss Miller’s words,—nor in her brother’s, save in that brutal jest about the prussic-acid. Thus, the more I pondered the less certain I became of all my previous impressions; only by staring at the two holes burned in the handkerchief could I retain my suspicion of Miss Miller.

chapter vii Two Gleams of Light A week passed, during which I was shut, by day, in my voluntary prison, and by night roamed restlessly in the vicinity of Meredith Place,—a long, intolerable week,—for I made no progress in my investigations, while my confinement to the cottage, without books or other society than gram’me’s, was extremely irksome. The only thing which relieved the monotony of these days, was gram’me’s visits to the mansion and the village, from which she would return with such gossip as she could glean. One day it was that Lillian was engaged to Arthur Miller, and that he was urging her to a speedy marriage, saying that her friends would overlook haste in consideration of the need which beset her of a home and protector. Another: it was reported that I had been seen and arrested by the police, in Philadelphia or Baltimore, and was to be brought back to Hampton the following day. Again: Lillian had refused Arthur Miller, and had declared her intention of opening a small school, so soon as she felt herself able to resume any regular duties. Still again: that a ghost haunted the woods of Meredith Place, and more especially the garden. It was said to be the spirit of the Doctor, wandering about in search of the lost treasure. Now, it was said I had gone to Europe to spend my ill-gotten fortune; then, that I was hiding in New York; but never that I was in the vicinity of Hampton. At the end of a week Gram’me Hooker came in, crying, from a visit to the house. ‘‘To-morrow’s the day of the sale,’’ she said, in explanation. ‘‘What will Lillian do?’’ I cried, wringing my hands together, as I walked

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up and down the narrow room like a caged panther. ‘‘Oh, how cruel it is that her only relative, her best friend, can not help her in this emergency! I am tied, hand and foot. Worse! she regards me as her enemy,—as a brute, a monster!’’ ‘‘No, no,’’ interposed gram’me, ‘‘she don’t, Doctor Joe. I never heard her speak ill o’ you. They try to make her, but she won’t.’’ ‘‘Oh, if I dared to see her, gram’me! Do you think it would be imprudent to bring her here to see me? I could tell her how I mean to work for her and Inez, as soon as I can get away to a place of safety!—how I only remain here in the hope of discovering the gold of which she has been robbed, that I may have the happiness of restoring it to her!—that I will find out the meaning of her father’s message! or, if I fail, then I am ready to earn a living, somewhere, away from my enemies,—for her, if she needs it; or, if Arthur Miller has already provided for her future, then, for poor Inez.’’ I spoke with rapid passionateness; but gram’me shook her head. ‘‘I shan’t risk it, Doctor Joe. If they should get hold o’ you, they wouldn’t show you a bit o’ mercy. The more folks talks and goes on, the more excited they gits. A lynchin’ is the least you may expect, if it gits out you’re anywhere around. I tremble night an’ day, at every sound. You must be keerful;—an’ if you’ll take my advice, you’ll quit these parts this very night.’’ ‘‘Not I! Not until I have done all that can be done at present. If they discover me they can only hang me. That will hurt them worse than it will me. How I despise that selfish vagabond!’’ I was thinking of Arthur Miller again. ‘‘Since she has no fortune, he leaves my poor darling to her fate!—and she loves him—I know she loves him!’’—and here I forgot my panther promenade, and dropped into a chair to dream over the last time I saw them together, alone, standing at the gate in the rosy light of sunset, her face upturned to his with a smile,—it was the evening before the tragedy,—and he had taken her little hand from the head of the stone lion, and pressed it, while I had shut my eyes and stumbled blindly into the hall. ‘‘I have gained nothing at all by hanging about the grounds,’’ I resumed, when the vision passed away; ‘‘to-night I shall enter the house; I want to examine the library once more.’’ ‘‘Oh, don’t!’’ cried gram’me, too overcome at my audacity to say more. ‘‘But I must. You know Tiger does not bark at me; and I know every door and window so thoroughly. Besides,’’ with a smile, ‘‘if I should encounter any one, I can assume my character as ghost.’’ ‘‘If they should find you, poking about where you didn’t belong, it would be evidence against you, don’t you see!’’ ‘‘Yes, yes, I see! But I am resolved upon the risk. You need not keep one eye open for me to-night. I shall take care of myself.’’ 254

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I went out, shortly after dark. As far as I could ascertain from Gram’me Hooker’s unsatisfactory reports, it was not decided what Inez and Lillian would do after the place was sold over their heads. Miss Miller had kindly remained with them, much to her own inconvenience (!) thus far, but she was to go, the day after the sale. Arthur still was practicing law in Hampton, and swearing every day, with a laughing oath, that he would like no better case with which to advance his legal career then the defense of a scoundrel like Joe Meredith. If Joe was ever arrested he should at once offer himself as his counsel! Fearing that Lillian might go away with Miss Miller, or something occur by which I should not see her for a long time, I went out early with the hope of catching a glimpse of her face or form if I hung around the shubberies and porches of the old house. This the intense darkness made it easy for me to do. There was no moon, and the stars were hidden by sultry clouds which hung low, promising rain. As familiar as the wood had grown to me, at this time, it was with difficulty that I stumbled through it, and came, by an open field, into the grounds which more nearly surrounded the old stone mansion. There were lights in the parlor, and I ventured, after reconnoitering for a time, to approach a window, and look through a curtain of honeysuckle, directly into the room. The first person I saw was Inez, Mrs. Meredith, lolling back in an easy-chair, her black garments falling about her slight form in heavy folds, as her black hair fell about her pale face; her eye-lashes rested on her cheeks as if she slept, and the hands dropped listlessly upon her knee did not stir. Like a child, she had wept herself to sleep. Presently I became aware that Lillian and Miss Miller were walking up and down the long room; the governess had her arm about her pupil’s waist, who was listening to her with a look which I could not translate, but it seemed to me, of wonder and incredulity. ‘‘Have you never had any reason to think that Inez, herself, in a freak of jealousy or anger—these Spaniards are so passionate, and so unprincipled—’’ spoke Miss Miller in a low voice, as both paused close by the window at which I stood. ‘‘Oh, impossible. You do not know how she loved him,—so grateful! so fond of poor papa; and she did not know the use of such things—don’t you see?’’ ‘‘She is ignorant enough, if that be all,’’ sneered the governess. Forget what I have said, Lillian. You know we are all under a cloud, liable to suspicion—even me, or you, or any one. I meant nothing in particular.’’ Lillian made no response, and they moved on; when they returned Miss Miller was saying—‘‘He loves you, ardently, but you are both too poor to marry now. My brother has his way to make, and dare not venture further responsibility until—’’

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‘‘Thank God for that!’’ I breathed, as the two again passed from hearing. It was like a reprieve to a condemned man. I had not heard my cousin’s reply, nor seen the expression of her face; I knew not but that she might be unhappy and disappointed, but for me, it was joy to feel that she was not too quickly to become the wife of that man whom I detested. I forgot that I had said that for her sake I wished she might be happily married. I felt my face flame up at the touch of the nightwind as I recalled Miss Miller’s attempt to still further injure and destroy poor Inez, by creating a cruel suspicion of her in the heart of her only friend. This seemed the most malignant thing I had known of all her conduct—only that still-bitter jealousy could in the least excuse it, for I felt that the governess did not believe her own words. ‘‘If she is so wicked as that, I have no reason to spare her,’’ I thought, with a resolve to make the most of the slight evidences in my keeping. Presently Mrs. Meredith awoke with a start, and a little cry. Lillian ran to her side and kissed her; there was a brief interval while the three talked together, and then all, ringing for bedroom candles, took their way up-stairs. At the door my cousin paused, looking mournfully about the room—at the pictures on the wall, the piano, the ornaments on the table, even the well-worn carpet. ‘‘Ah, to-morrow these will belong to some stranger! To-morrow night we shall have no home, Inez! But, you do not love this place as I do. I was born here; I am a part of it; my mother died here, my fa—’’ a sudden sob choked her, and she fled up the stair-case. ‘‘If there is a God of justice who will accept my vows, I swear to never rest from my self-appointed task until Meredith Place is again yours, cousin Lillian,’’ I murmured,—but she, whom I fain would have comforted, heard me not. I wandered about the well-known paths, secure in the stifling darkness, until, one by one, the lights went out in the old mansion. I could tell when the servants were in bed, when Inez had turned down her lamp to a faint spark, when the light vanished from Lillian’s casement, and there was only a dim gleam from the window of Miss Miller’s apartment. I supposed that Lillian slept with the governess from what I had overheard at the cottage. Soon after the household were in bed I attempted the venturesome task of entering the house. I wished to examine again the library, hoping to find some drawer, or case, some scrap of paper, something which would aid me in interpreting the meaning of the figure eight. It might be the number of a paper, the page of an account-book, the number of a drawer or desk— and, although I had previously thus applied it to every imaginable article, I longed to make one more trial. It gave me a curious sensation to be thus approaching my uncle’s house, 256

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like a thief in the night. A spectator might have been justified in thinking me bent on some unlawful errand, had there been one to watch my course that night. But, the darkness was favorable to me. Indeed, I should have had more difficulty than I encountered, were it not for occasional flashes of heat-lightning, which enabled me to grope my way to the points at which I aimed. I guessed rightly that terror of ghosts and murderers would make the servants very careful about fastening up the house. Every door was locked, and all the lower windows secured. While I stood hesitating what course to pursue to effect a noiseless entrance, a ray of light suddenly shot out from one of those lower windows which previously had been quite dark. For a moment I was startled, the light had appeared so unexpectedly, when I believed the whole house to be wrapped in slumber. The next instant all my senses were alert. I was not the only ‘‘spook’’ who haunted Meredith Place, that was evident! The window from which the light streamed belonged to my uncle’s laboratory; it was on the ground floor, and adjoined the library. There was no door of communication between the two rooms, but access could be had from one to the other by stepping out into the hall. There was a broken slat to one of the shutters and at this I took my post of observation. It commanded a good view of the interior. As I expected, I saw Miss Miller, standing, with a lamp in her hand; she was in her night-dress,—I could not tell whether or not in a somnambulic state. Holding the lamp aloft she slowly turned, surveying every side of the room: the light was in her left hand; in her right she carried a key, and as she raised it as if to give it a careful examination, I saw that it was of curious construction. From the color I took it to be silver, of medium size and singular shape. I had seen that key once before. After completing her survey of the apartment, Miss Miller tried the locks of all the drawers and compartments, and these were many, for the laboratory was full of nooks and corners, as might be expected of a room used for such purposes. The larger number of drawers were open to observation; such as were fastened the key would not unlock. There was a little old-fashioned cupboard built high up in the wall. Miss Miller had to climb up into a chair to reach it. She took her lamp with her, examining its recesses; she appeared to find something of interest—a cupboard within a cupboard—probably a hiding-place for the silver spoons of the first Merediths, before the wing had been added to the house, and when this was the dining-room. But the secret compartment now contained nothing of value; and descending from the chair she set her lamp on the table, walking about in a restless manner. First she paused before the black mouth of the little furnace where she had so often

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tended the golden fires with him. All was dark and cold, as seemed this woman’s lot. Then she stood beside the shelves on which were arranged the poisons and other dangerous compounds. I could see her distinctly now, for she was not three feet from me. She remained here several moments. As you may have noticed a storm gather swiftly and silently in the west, black, rolling clouds and brooding winds, so a tempest gathered in her face. I always had known her to be a woman of immense force of character; but the convulsion of passion which seemed about to rend her being, fairly awed and made me tremble. I saw now, that this was no sleep-walker. She stood there gazing at bottles and jars with their warning labels. The one marked prussic-acid had been taken away since the day of the—accident. The sight of its vacant place was enough to shake her soul. I saw the long shudders begin in her chest and run to her feet; her interlocked fingers grew purple with their pressure upon one another; the expression of her face was dreadful;—then she bent, as if weighed down by some invisible pressure; fell on her knees, her shoulders drooping as if that unseen weight was crushing her;—her face was almost against the floor, her magnificent long black hair trailed over it. It was a spectacle of awful emotion upon which I felt that I had no right to gaze, yet I could not withdraw my eyes. Which passion predominated? grief or remorse? Of course, with my prejudiced judgment, I said that it was remorse. Yet I felt deep compassion for her—that I ought to leave the agonised soul alone with its Maker. I withdrew from my post of observation. Let those who read these confessions not set me down as naturally deficient in honor or truth, that I assumed, so often, the character of spy and eaves-dropper. As it is necessary, in times of war, for some one to undertake these odious duties, it behooved me, by any means at my command, to trace the guilty in order that I might relieve the innocent. My grief at the manner in which my uncle had been snatched from the fruition of his labors incited me to vengeance, while my interest in Lillian would not allow me to rest so long as there was the faintest hope that her patrimony could be restored to her. However, that night, I felt no longer any desire to enter the house. I might have done so by climbing the back porch and entering by an upper window which stood wide open; but I was so subdued by the misery I had witnessed that I had not spirit left for the enterprise. By this time, the thunder-storm which had been gathering for hours in the sultry air, was ready for active operations. The first scattering outriders of the rain came galloping on; the flash and roar of artillery was seen and heard in the distance. This war of the elements just suited me; fevered and excited as I was I rather craved the threatened drenching, and 258

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I walked up and down the gravel path beside the mansion, Tiger marching silently by my side. The dog stood higher in my confidence than any human being. He always was with me in my midnight prowlings, assuring me of his sympathy by an occasional touch of his nose against my hand. It was probably not later than eleven o’clock when the scene in the laboratory transpired. I remained in the garden until the light disappeared, shone a moment in the upper hall, and again went out. Still restless, feeling as if I could not endure the close air of Gram’me Hooker’s garret, I continued to wander about, reaching presently the little side-gate which admitted foot-passengers to the grounds. A flash of lightning showed me the forms of two persons standing, one on either side the gate. I immediately stepped behind an evergreen, whose branches reached to the ground, completely concealing me, made Tiger crouch by my side, and waited for another flash to reveal who these persons were. I thought of Ellen, the chambermaid, a pretty girl who had more than one beau in the vicinity; but all these had grown so afraid of ‘‘spirits’’ as no longer to be guilty of keeping late hours. ‘‘Arthur Miller,’’ I said to myself, as a voice, gaily expostulating, broke in on the low murmur of the other. Who was that other? Lillian—of course, Lillian! She was engaged to him, and had a right to walk with him to the gate, to say farewell! But I did not know that he had been a visitor at the house that evening, and I did know that my cousin had gone, or pretended to go, to her room, nearly two hours ago. Perhaps it was only the sister speaking with her brother. Miss Miller was going away the following day, and doubtless had things to say to Arthur which concerned only themselves. I waited impatiently for the lightning again to hold its flickering lamp. As if to gratify my necessity, there came a succession of tremulous gleams, one melting into another, making a brief day of that midnight darkness. Every leaf and rain-drop grew distinct. I saw the handsome, insincere face of Arthur Miller, looking curiously pale or green in the livid light,—and I saw another face upturned to his, smiling, flushed, with parted lips glowing as if they had just been kissed—a fair face—a young face—but not Lillian’s:—I almost wished that it was! ‘‘You are getting wet—you will take cold. Good-bye for to-night, I will see you again soon—to-morrow—every day! How delicious the roses are to-night,—or is it your breath? who can tell? Take care of yourself, and again—good night.’’ ‘‘Adieu, señor; pleasant dreams.’’ The next moment the black folds of her mourning garments touched me as she went by.

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‘‘Ah, you bad dog, you surprise me,’’ she cried, under her breath, as her hand came in contact with Tiger’s damp coat, who trotted away by her side. Yes, there could be no mistake! The woman who met Arthur Miller, alone, and at an unseasonable hour, was Inez, the widow of a month; for whose sad fate as orphan, exile, and widow, hundreds of eyes daily grew dim with sympathy. If I had seen a sweet babe rise from its cradle, with all the passions and disfigurements of mature life suddenly stamped upon its face, I should not have been more astonished.

chapter viii In a New Character In our quiet village there was little speculation in real estate; the crowd in attendance at the sale of Meredith Place was large, but the bidding was tame, and the old homestead was finally bought in by the creditor who held the largest claims against the estate, at a sum much below its value. He took the property because he got it for two-thirds its worth; but he would gladly sell it at the first fair offer, and, in the meantime, felt something as if he had an elephant on his hands. All the well-to-do people of Hampton had places of their own; no strangers were coming in, just then, and the poorer class, who rented houses, did not wish so expensive an establishment. The new owner decided to advertise it in the New York papers as for rent for the remainder of the summer, or for sale as a country-seat. He did so; but kindly insisted upon Mrs. and Miss Meredith remaining until the place was let. This they were glad to do, as their plans were not yet fully arranged. It was Lillian’s intention to open a private school. She had reserved her piano from the sale, that she might be able to give lessons on it. Inez was to give instruction in vocal music and on the guitar. They were looking about for a suitable house; one small enough to match their purses, yet with a room which could be spared to the prospective pupils. Lillian went about with a subscription paper securing the names of her pupils. I heard all this through Gram’me Hooker, and was obliged to submit to it. Lillian soliciting pupils! I should as soon think of two humming-birds settling themselves to teaching, as of her and Inez bound down to onerous duties. Yet I gave Lillian credit for real strength of character and for unusual intelligence. I knew that she acted from a sense 260

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of duty; that no hero ever displayed more bravery than she in the manner in which she had borne the events of this terrible summer. Miss Miller had returned to the city; her brother continued, for the present, the practice of the law in Hampton,—at least his ‘‘shingle’’ hung over his office-door, and he sat within and smoked choice cigars. I should have been away—had designed to be, ere this,—away in some Western city, where, under an assumed name, I hoped to earn money by honest toil, which I could send to my cousin. I sometimes smiled when I thought of her as a teacher, consoling myself with the thought that her experience would be brief, for, my life was devoted to her! I should not work without returns; and all that I had should be hers. I would find means to convey it to her. In the meantime I made the best use I could of my enforced idleness, by frequent intrusions into the library, from whence I supplied myself with books, which served both to increase my stock of knowledge and to fill up the wearisome pauses in the play of life. I could not always have escaped unnoticed from these marauding expeditions, for the most absurd stories circulated in the vicinity concerning the ghost which haunted the garden and the house, at Meredith Place. This restless spirit was thought to prefer the arbor and the library as its haunting-places. It was no delusion of the ignorant;—intelligent people had laid in wait for it, and seen it. It visited, most frequently, the scene of the murder. Books had been placed in certain positions, and marked; and had been found, in the morning, to have been displaced, sometimes actually disappearing. These were sure to be the Doctor’s favorite authors. Hence, some formed the theory that disembodied spirits are not above the use of material means for their intellectual amusement or improvement. All this impressed upon me the necessity for being more cautious in my movements. By this time active search for me had ceased. The police of the various cities had a written description of my person and habits, and were instructed, generally, to be on the look-out for as heartless a scoundrel and bold a criminal as ever eluded their arts. What I wondered at was, that the two girls,—for what more than a child was Inez?—should have the courage to remain in that lonely place, after Miss Miller was gone, and all the servants dismissed but one elderly woman, who had served the first Mrs. Meredith, and who would not desert her daughter, if she worked without other reward than love. It was a small household to fill so large a place; but courage was one of the new virtues which Lillian was developing. ‘‘What should we fear?’’ she asked Gram’me Hooker, when spoken to on the subject; ‘‘every one knows that we have scarcely money enough to buy our daily bread,—so we shall not be troubled by robbers. As to the

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ghosts, gram’me, I tell you, truly, if I thought my dear father still visited the place which was so dear to him while he lived, it would only add another and deeper charm to it. I was not afraid of him in life, why should I be in death?’’—then she burst into tears; and gram’me wept in telling me of it. They were not entirely without friends, these two lonely children: people who had long known and respected Dr. Meredith were anxious to manifest sympathy to his family; but the young folks of the village did not feel at liberty to intrude their gay company upon the mourners, so that Arthur Miller was almost the only young gentleman who visited at Meredith Place. He spent nearly every evening of the week there; so that it came to be a settled belief that he and Lillian were engaged. But I have not told why it was that I still lingered and skulked about this spot, instead of making a bold effort for liberty and work. I was engaged in a study so absorbing as, for the time being, to leave me no choice of action. Others might not have judged Mrs. Meredith so severely, but to me there was something appalling in the fact that she had already engaged in a flirtation with a young gentleman. Since that night of the thunderstorm I had asked myself many painful questions as to the imprudence of my uncle marrying this young stranger, and bringing her into his family. He was a man most easily imposed upon by any one who had a fair face or an innocent look,—he revered women—as well he might have done had they all been like Lillian’s mother—and did not look for duplicity or baseness in them. Spanish women, as a rule, were not notoriously good; this pretty Cuban girl had never been trained, in all probability, to the practice of those high and stern principles of honor and right which were regarded as the natural heritage of my countrywomen. I soon satisfied myself that Arthur Miller’s visits were for Inez, not for Lillian; it was by her side he sat; to her he read; to her he brought flowers; her music that he turned, when, occasionally, she would sing one or two Spanish songs. Lillian must be aware of his desertion:—was it adding the last drop to her overflowing trouble? I could not decide. She was always so sad, so quiet in the dignity of her sorrow, that even I, who knew her so well, could not tell how much notice she took of the little drama being played in her presence. Sometimes the whole three came to Gram’me Hooker’s cottage, in the course of an afternoon stroll—Lillian always sad, patient, waiting on the movement of the others,—Arthur gallant, gay, Inez leaning on his arm, turning her great black eyes to his, calling upon him for a hundred little attentions. I could see them from my hiding-place. Inez’ manner was that of a petulant, spoiled child. I could not make up my mind that there was anything bad in her. She seemed to me impulsive, selfish, fond, timid, accustomed to self-indulgence. I believed that her imprudent 262

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and heartless conduct was the result of untrained feelings always allowed to run riot. She found grief wearisome, solitude oppressive, and threw off both to bask in that sunshine of gay society which her shallow nature craved. Ah! what a pity that Dr. Meredith had taken this butterfly to his bosom, who could flaunt her airy wings as brightly as ever before a single flower could spring on his grave!—what a pity that my cousin should be condemned to such companionship! I saw then that it might have been better for her, and for all concerned, if my uncle had married that other woman who had loved him with a passion which mocked the foolish fondness of this young thing, and who would have been a counselor and support to Lillian in this crisis of her experience. About the first of August, a gentleman came out from the city to look at Meredith Place; was delighted with it, and at once engaged it until the first of November. I did not know, until his family arrived, that Miss Miller was a member of it. She had gone to Mr. Chateaubriand’s as a governess immediately upon leaving Hampton; and it was she who induced that gentleman to look at Meredith Place when her physicians ordered his wife away from the sea-air. Whether Miss Miller wished to be near her brother, or to look after the welfare of her former pupil, or whether she had interests of her own to serve, no one save herself knew. Here she was; and here was the old mansion, so gloomy and silent, so overshadowed by a dark tragedy, suddenly transformed into a scene of incessant gayety, life, and festivity. My poor Lily was driven forth into the world. Quite ready to go, she declared herself anxious to begin her career as a day laborer. Mrs. Chateaubriand, who knew her history from Miss Miller, and who was wealthy enough to gratify all her pretty fancies of this kind, insisted that neither Lillian nor Inez should stir from under that roof as long as her family remained; she would be only too glad to have them for visitors, in that secluded village,—the house had many vacant rooms, and they must help to fill it;—all this so prettily and urgently said, that Inez was delighted, and wished to accept the offered hospitality. When Lillian positively, but most gratefully, declined,—‘‘Let me stay, then,’’ pleaded Inez; ‘‘you know I can never earn my own living.’’ ‘‘Then I will earn it for you—for both of us, dear Inez,’’ said Lillian. And her companion yielded, as usual, to the stronger will, though not without petulance and a full complement of tears. A kind neighbor assisted Miss Meredith to move her few household goods and gods to the small dwelling just out of the main street of Hampton, where she was to set up her new Lares and Penates. She was not to open school until the middle of September, so that she had ample time to arrange her tiny household, and to look over her old school-books with a

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view to some practical use of the knowledge she had gained from them. Urged by me, Gram’me Hooker made her almost daily visits; if they were tedious inflictions, my cousin may now set it down to my account; I was selfish—I could not live without some hint of how my darling fared from day to day. I inferred that Inez was a great drag upon Lillian, instead of an assistant; that she was homesick, wanted to return to Cuba, wanted to visit Mrs. Chateaubriand, wanted to have more company, to go out more,— everything, in short, but to really make herself useful, or patiently to bear the hard circumstances which had come upon her. Meredith Place was a scene of long-continued gayety. Although its present mistress was something of an invalid, she was accustomed to see a great deal of company; she had two beautiful daughters, of an age to go into society, and there was a constant coming and going of friends from the city. Fashionably-dressed young ladies promenaded the prim old walks; foppish gentlemen made bouquets for them out of the oldfashioned flowers—even flowers may be in and out of style! Any quantity of flirting was going on in the arbor; the music of a grand piano shook the honeysuckles at the windows at all hours of the day and nearly all of the night; the stables were full of horses; glittering carriages dashed about the drives; silver and cut-glass shone in the dining-room; the novels of the day lay carelessly on the very table where my uncle, in dying, had left that illegible scrawl. Little room, now, for ghosts to haunt the old place! The laboratory remained the least changed of any of the rooms,—there was little in it to interest these gay idlers, and as the room was not required for other purposes, it was allowed to stand as it was left,—the retorts, the crucibles, the furnace, all the little instruments and chemicals, idle now, with the dust gathering over them from week to week. In the midst of this excitement Miss Miller led a secluded life. She had taken her place in this fashionable family simply as the governess of the three younger children; she made no attempt to gain unusual privileges; instead, she shrank from having her accomplishments displayed for the pleasure or amusement of these summer idlers. When she was not in the school-room, she sat in her chamber, or walked alone through the garden and woods. Many an evening I saw her sit for hours, immovable, her head leaning against the casement of her window. Sometimes her brother Arthur called to see her. He was always welcomed by the ladies of the house. He knew how to make himself attractive; the Misses Chateaubriand, like all well-trained flirts, never had a superabundance of cavaliers,—‘‘all was fish which came to their nets,’’ in the way of gentlemen attendants, where morning-parties and picnics, as well as evening gatherings, were the order of the season. A young man like this, 264

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graceful, self-possessed, toned down by the amenities of civilized life to a respectable figure, was likely to be doubly appreciated in the country. That his sister was their sister’s governess made no especial difference with this appreciation on the part of the young ladies, since the young gentleman was ‘‘only for the summer,’’ and not for ‘‘all time.’’ I had a good view of the elder Miss Chateaubriand a few days after her arrival. I was perched among the branches of a hickory tree, across the way from Gram’me Hooker’s house. It was a retired place, and had the advantage of being more airy than my garret; I changed to it for variety, and many had been the hours I had spent in that ‘‘leafy and murmurous’’ chamber. As I say, I was perched in my secluded tower, with a book for company, when a party of ladies and gentlemen came trooping out of a narrow bridle-path which they had followed, idly, to find whither it would lead. They were in high spirits, laughing, singing, and jesting, as they passed along. I thought some of the girls very pretty as their ponies ambled by, but when Miss Chateaubriand (as I heard her escort address her), brought up the rear, all the other figures and faces seemed tame in comparison with hers. She was one of those women who look well on horseback; tall, of full figure, with a slender, supple waist; her black velvet riding hat and plume contrasted with the bright gold of her braided hair; her eyes were a very dark blue, looking black at times under the shelter of lashes and brows many shades darker than her hair. She was undeniably handsome, yet there was more in her superb manners and witty conversation than in her beauty, to attract and fascinate her companions. All this, of course, I did not discover, during my brief observation as she passed by; but I, like others, was dazzled at the first glance. I saw what gentleman of the party elected himself her escort, kept nearest to her side, bent oftenest to listen or to speak. It was Arthur Miller; nothing less could be expected of his time-serving and capricious nature, but that he should be in the suite of the newest beauty and most promising heiress. I felt at once that the inmates of the white cottage would see but little of him the remainder of the summer. Here let me remark that much of what I have to relate did not pass in my presence, and was not known to me at the time; many things came to me afterwards in the course of explanations and repetitions, which ensued before the drama of which I am the historian reached its denouement. The village talked much of Miss Chateaubriand’s popularity; her less brilliant but pretty sister, Sophie, was also well liked; soon there was gossip about Arthur Miller, in connection with them. It was remarked that he was neglecting Lillian Meredith, and that it was not to be taken for granted that it was his sister who called him so frequently to the old homestead. No one suspected who it was who felt most keenly his growing neglect;

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that is, no one save I and perhaps one other. Miss Miller had not returned to Hampton without an object. It might seem natural enough that she should think of recommending Meredith Place to her employers; I alone thought it singular that she should be willing to return under such circumstances, and at once set myself to find out what her object was. I made up my mind that she was watching some one; that she, too, was playing the part of spy, and I was not long in determining that both of us kept in view the same person. Once had I confronted Miss Miller, as several times I had felt urged to do, I should have pointed my finger at her, and said: ‘‘Thou art the woman!’’ Now I was divided in my opinion, racked by contrary theories, absolutely laughed at by conflicting facts. About the first of October the Chateaubriands gave an evening entertainment of a more pretentious character than usual. The house was filled with guests from the city, and all their acquaintances in and about Hampton were invited. There was to be dancing in the upper hall, with music by the two colored fiddlers which our village boasted. Gram’me Hooker told me that the housekeeper had inquired of her where she could engage an extra couple of waiters whom they should want on the evening of the ball. A rash desire took possession of me. I was so completely tired of my summer’s restrictions that it seemed to me that I must have a change of some kind. I wanted to see those persons together whom I had watched from a distance—to have them immediately under my eye, acting in concert and unaware of my vicinity. I resolved that I would go to the ball. I felt assured that I could act the character of a mulatto waiter and escape recognition. I was so mad to go that I was willing to incur all risks. I told gram’me to report to the housekeeper that she had secured one waiter, who would be promptly at his post in time to receive her instructions on the night of the party. Sheep strayed at pasture in the woods of Meredith Place. There was one black fellow in the flock, and I think I may take to myself credit for the ingenuity with which I converted a portion of his fleece into a wig, and a mustache of which the most dandified Adonis of the colored race need not have been ashamed. Gram’me Hooker lent a large red silk handkerchief, which I metamorphosed into a flaming cravat; the walnut trees gave the wherewithal to dye my skin a handsome brown. When I dressed myself for my part in the evening’s drama, I did not smile at my ridiculous figure; I never felt more solemn, more sad, than when I set out upon my adventure. This was no farce, but an awful reality in which I was engaged. I might pay with liberty and life for my hardihood in running the risk of detection, but this was not what I thought of. I was to see Lillian; to have the sweet privilege of watching her, hour 266

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after hour; of stealing near to her unaware. I should hear her voice, meet the glance of her eye, her sable garments might sweep across my feet, perchance, for I should certainly put myself in her way. I knew that she would attend the party, and the reason why. Inez had insisted upon accepting the urgent invitation which they had personally received. Mrs. Chateaubriand herself had come to them and said that they need not dance, nor sing, nor play, nor in any way make themselves prominent; but she would love to have them come and look on; they should have a quiet corner—it would do them good, etc., etc. Lillian had refused, with that gentle firmness which was one of her most admirable qualities; but, after their visitor had departed, Inez had burst into tears, stamped her foot on the floor, and declared that she would, and should, and must go—she could not endure this sort of life any longer. Then my cousin, thinking it wiser to cover the imprudence of her father’s widow by keeping her company, consented to go for a few hours if Inez would be very quiet and be sure to refuse all attentions of the gentlemen. Poor Lily! she already had accepted her place as mentor and guardian of one who should have been her adviser and protector. As I was reporting myself to the housekeeper, on the important evening, Miss Miller came into the dining-room for a glass of water. She wore the velvet dress which she had had prepared for that other never-to-beforgotten occasion, but the jewels were foregone, except a small brooch.

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She looked pale, almost haggard, ten years older than on that April day when she had bloomed into a second girlhood in anticipation of meeting the man she loved. I think she was ill and agitated; her hand trembled as she took the glass, which I hastened to hand her from the salver. I always did things audaciously, by bold strokes of impulse. I was willing to test my disguise then and there; for I had reason to believe that if her sharp eyes did not detect it I need fear no other. She did start, when, on returning the glass, she looked at me as she said, ‘‘thank you!’’ but I inferred that the thought or suspicion which might have momentarily occurred to her as speedily passed away. I forgot that others might be as subtle as myself, or have their own reasons for keeping the peace. Supper was not to be served until eleven o’clock; but I had opportunities for observation. I hung about the halls and doors after the manner of colored waiters when they have nothing else to do, and was very attentive to the wants of the guests. I saw Lillian sitting by a table in the parlor, turning over a book of engravings. Many came and spoke with her, and she answered them all in a low voice, with a faint smile, and hardly lifting her eyes. I knew that she was trying to keep from crying. What a young thing she was to be so desolate! Only seventeen, and looking so childish with her floating curls and fair forehead. How heavy and unnatural was that black dress on one who had always worn pink and blue and white! My heart throbbed so that I thought the people about me must hear it; and I went away, only to come back again and gaze as before. Inez stood near, her cheeks crimson and her dark Southern eyes blazing with excitement. I could see her little foot patting the floor to the music of the violins; but she refused the few offers which were made her to be taken to the ball-room. The larger part of the company were up-stairs; she grew restless as she found her companions deserting her. ‘‘I promised you not to dance,’’ she said, when they were almost alone, to Lillian, ‘‘and I will not. But I would like to go up and look at them. Arthur Miller is there.’’ ‘‘Come, then, I will go with you,’’ said my cousin, speaking as to a child whom she must indulge in order to avoid a scene, and the two passed out. I manufactured an errand which answered my purpose; making my way to the head of the hall, I spoke to one of the musicians, then leaned against the stand and looked on at the dance. Opposite me, in the first set, stood Miss Chateaubriand and Arthur Miller. Both were looking their best, danced superbly, and were very animated. Lillian and Inez were on a sofa near by. I was curious to note how they regarded the scene before them. My cousin was as calm, as sad as ever; but Inez’ eyes burned with an intolerable light. 268

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Her gaze never swerved from that gay couple, following their motions, even the movement of their lips, with a fiery glance, betraying the smoldering fury within. Jealous! yes; almost beyond control. I wondered that Miller did not feel her eyes scorch him. He noticed her after a time, and was not quite so easy in his gallantries after that; as soon as that dance was over, he came to the sofa and bent over Inez: ‘‘I am so sorry you can not dance,’’ he said. ‘‘So am I.’’ ‘‘I am sure you dance beautifully; I have heard of the grace of you Southern ladies. ‘‘Not so well as Miss Chateaubriand.’’ ‘‘Perhaps not,’’ he answered, laughing; ‘‘I will not swear to either until I see you dance.’’ ‘‘Si!’’ she suddenly hissed between her shut teeth; ‘‘but beware! it is dangerous to trifle with me!’’ Both spoke so low they did not expect to be heard by others, and were probably entirely oblivious of the colored servant leaning near by. ‘‘I know you are dangerous,’’ he returned, coolly—‘‘there are those who have had experience of that.’’ She grew white, and red, and white again; her hand closed over the arm of the sofa, the flashing eyes fell. He continued: ‘‘Don’t make yourself disagreeable, Inez; you ought to be willing I should enjoy myself.’’ ‘‘No, no—not without me!’’ she whispered, passionately. ‘‘I’m not good, like her,’’ motioning towards Lillian; ‘‘I can not bear neglect—it sets my blood on fire. If you dance with that girl again I shall be angry. I tell you I can not but be jealous.’’ Her syllables, broken by the difficulty with which she spoke our language, were soft and pleading; her resentment was merged for the time in anxiety. ‘‘I like to see you jealous—it makes your eyes so bright,’’ and with a smile, half mocking, half careless, he bowed and went away. The very next five minutes he was floating by in the waltz with Miss Chateaubriand, and his laughing eyes met the fixed gaze of Inez, as the pair whirled deliciously on in a glamour of perfumes, lights, and music, which mingled together as they moved.

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chapter ix Carte and Counter Carte It was near eleven o’clock, and I went down to the supper-room. For the next hour I was busied with my legitimate duties. I saw Miss Miller and Inez standing together, waited upon by Arthur, who seemed to have repented of his up-stairs flirtation. Lillian was not in the supper-room at all. As soon as the first bustle was over, my desire to know where she was induced me to forsake my post and go out along the halls. Presently I found her in the library, which was entirely deserted save by her. Her head was bowed upon the table; large tears welled and dropped in silence from her eyes. I struggled then with the fierce desire to betray myself to her, to tell her how I pitied her, to kiss away those mournful tears; but I was not certain that, should I disclose myself, she would not shrink from me in horror. I went back and secured a salver, which I filled with the choicest delicacies of the feast, and brought and placed on the table by her side. ‘‘O! not here,’’ she said, looking up quickly, ‘‘you do not know;—I could not eat here. Thank you, waiter,’’ she added, as if afraid she had hurt my feelings by refusing. I took the food away, angry with myself at my blunder. Presently, the three in whom I was most interested left the supper-room in search of Lillian. I was in the butler’s pantry, from which a small slatted window opened on the back porch, and I saw, through the slats, Inez and Arthur walking in the porch. Her voice was so loud as to make me fear that she would be overheard by strangers; then she stopped abruptly in her walk, turned upon him, and struck him in the face. He attempted to soothe her, but she grew more and more excited. I was impressed with the painful absurdity of her conduct; she might have reason for anger, but this was not our woman’s way of showing it. Finally her companion turned his back upon her, tired of attempting to parry her accusations. Something flashed in her hand, but a firm grasp seized her arm, and Miss Miller’s voice, low, but stormy with command, said: ‘‘Go to Lillian, Mrs. Meredith; she is tired, and wishes to go home.’’ She led Inez to the hall door, almost pushed her in, then returned to her brother. The two stood directly under my window. ‘‘Arthur, I must know what you are about! Do you intend to marry Mrs. Meredith?’’ ‘‘If she were not so confounded poor I would. I admire the little panther immensely.’’ 270

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‘‘Is she poor?’’ ‘‘What under the sun do you ask me about it for?’’ ‘‘I have half an idea that she may have means after all?’’ ‘‘Sis, what do you mean?’’ ‘‘I have not watched you two all summer without results.’’ ‘‘Hang me, Annie, if I know what you are driving at.’’ ‘‘Arthur, you shall not trifle with me. Whatever you may have done, or contemplate doing, it is safer for you to confide in me. If I knew all, I might be prepared to assist, if difficulties arose.’’ ‘‘Speak more plainly, sis; no beating about the bush, please.’’ ‘‘Well, then, do you know if Mrs. Meredith has possession of the money supposed to have been stolen?’’ There was silence; I strained my ear for the answer. ‘‘Confound it, sis; I might as well ask if you knew who put that quietus in the Doctor’s wine, or what it was done for.’’ ‘‘Arthur!’’ ‘‘Well, don’t tease me, then. I know nothing of the old fellow’s precious box, as I have told you again and again. Things have come to a pretty pass when one’s own sister—’’ ‘‘Never mind, Arthur; I did not know but you might have been taken into the confidence of others. I do not like you to be so intimate with Mrs. Meredith—she’s an unprincipled, undisciplined young thing, quite unfitted by nature or education to make a good—even a tolerable wife. If you are willing to marry poor, why do you give up Lillian?’’ ‘‘I’m not willing to marry poor.’’ ‘‘Then cease flirting with Inez; it is not safe to play with fire.’’ ‘‘It is she who is flirting with me; don’t blame me for it. She began it before the Doctor’s mishap. I thought nothing serious of it; I should not like, now, to believe that his accident was owing to the power of my attractions.’’ ‘‘Don’t!’’ Her voice was a groan as she said it. ‘‘Beg your pardon, Annie, but I really shouldn’t; I should not rest well. I don’t profess to read your sex very easily; you know I have guessed somebody else might have been jealous—’’ He hesitated, but she made no remark. ‘‘Do you think Joe Meredith is enjoying the proceeds?’’ he asked. ‘‘Why do you ask me?’’ It seemed as if she were impressed (as I was) with a feeling of untruth in all her brother did or said. ‘‘You were down upon him hard, at the first.’’ ‘‘That might have been policy; a person who is threatened will turn in time. If I had not directed attention to him, he would have directed it to me. He has my handkerchief.’’

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A plate on which my hand rested snapped under the weight. ‘‘Good heavens!’’ cried Miss Miller. She had not noticed the window before. I knew that she would come straight to the pantry, to find who, if any one, had been a listener to their conversation. Other servants were passing in and out of the pantry, and I immediately slipped out, leaving them in possession. When Miss Miller came into the supper-room, I was on the opposite side, with my back to the pantry, busily arranging dishes on a side-table. Being a member of the family, it was not thought strange that she should have an errand here. She passed quickly to the pantry: if there were an enemy there, or a person who had possessed himself of a dangerous secret, she wished to confront him at once. There was not a grain of indecision in her make-up; she might commit a crime, but she could face the consequences. Presently she came out, walking leisurely about the room; when she reached me, she said: ‘‘Waiter, I was so busy attending to the guests, I forgot my own wants. Will you give me an ice, now?’’ I brought her the ice, and handed her a chair. She sank into it heavily; her paleness and haggardness had increased but she did not tremble or appear nervous. ‘‘Where do you live?’’ she asked. ‘‘I knew of no such person in this neighborhood;—Watson, they said your name was?’’ ‘‘Yes, ’m.’’ Glancing around, and finding that no one was in our vicinity, she continued, in her ordinary tone: ‘‘Your disguise is not as perfect as you might wish, Mr. Meredith. Let me advise you to leave here immediately, if you would consult your own safety.’’ ‘‘If you recognize me, why do you not raise the alarm?’’ I said, quite calmly, after my first start of surprise. ‘‘I have no desire to take an active part in events; I would rather let them rest, if that were possible; indeed, I would like to see you go away before it is too late—I have been fearing all the evening that you would be recognized, and—I hate scenes!’’ ‘‘Why are you at Meredith Place?’’ ‘‘My business brought me here; I came here in the most legitimate way, but you—’’ ‘‘Have never left it.’’ ‘‘That is no news to me, Mr. Meredith. Since the night when I met you in the arbor, I have had no doubt of your vicinity—I knew what ghost 272

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haunted this place. Are you watching me alone, or do others share in the honor of your regards?’’ ‘‘Since you are so well advised, you ought to know.’’ ‘‘You stop with old Mrs. Hooker.’’ ‘‘That is true; pardon me, Miss Miller.’’ With a movement too sudden for her to anticipate or prevent, I snatched at a slender gold chain about her neck, and pulled the charm which was attached to it from its hidingplace. ‘‘I have been very curious about this key,’’ I said, holding it in my hand, with a piece of the broken chain. She dared not struggle with me for it, for fear of drawing the attention of the servants. Her first thought was to look about to find if my action had been noticed. ‘‘Give it back to me!—you shall not have it! How do you dare to rob me of my property?’’ ‘‘Is it your property?’’ ‘‘I found it,’’ she answered, without reflection. ‘‘Where?’’ ‘‘No matter—it is mine! It will do you no good.’’ I examined the key by the lamp which stood near. It bore the mark, ‘‘Madrid, 1800,’’—an ancient affair, of silver, and of unique shape. ‘‘I remember it now!’’ I exclaimed, so loud as to cause some of the servants to look round; ‘‘I remarked it at the time, but had forgotten it. It is the key to that box! When my uncle showed us his treasure, I remember that key was in the lock!’’ ‘‘I know it; I found it after the—his death. If I could find the box, too, you might have both to restore to their rightful owners.’’ ‘‘I believe you were the first to insinuate that I had the box; that I was the ingrate—the serpent which stung the bosom which warmed me!’’ ‘‘I did—I thought so then; what else could I think?’’ ‘‘Then you can not complain that I entertained a similar opinion of you. You thought avarice prompted me; I believed jealousy prompted you; we have a right to our opinions, and to prove their truth if we can. About this key: what further good can it do you—you have tried everywhere to make it of use?’’ ‘‘That is why I acquit you of knowing where that money is—because I have seen you looking for it.’’ ‘‘Oh! but I am sharper than that—my suspicions reach farther. I have seen you looking for it, apparently, which may be all a pretense, to cover up your knowledge.’’ ‘‘Why don’t you denounce me, then—I could scarcely escape from all these people?’’

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‘‘I am not ready.’’ ‘‘I will borrow this key for a time; if I find it of no use, I will return it to you in a year or two.’’ ‘‘In a year or two this tragedy will pass from the memory of men. One or two lives are blasted, but the world will forget!’’ ‘‘I shall never forget, nor rest. Know, that so long as I live, I am not resting nor forgetting!’’ I placed the key in my pocket. ‘‘It is not the key which is of value,’’ she said, bitterly. Just then Arthur, with five or six young gentlemen, came in to look for an extra bottle or two of champagne; they called upon me to furnish it. ‘‘For shame!’’ I heard Miss Miller whisper to her brother; ‘‘you have had more than enough already’’—a fact which I had suspected, when he so recklessly annoyed Mrs. Meredith. I do not know what it was betrayed me, but as I silently brought the wine, Arthur grew very quiet to watch me; this disconcerted me, I made an awkward movement; before I could defend myself, he sprang upon me, pulled my false hair from my head and face— ‘‘Joe Meredith, as I’m alive! Secure him, boys!’’ ‘‘Let him alone, brother Arthur!—do let him go!’’ pleaded Miss Miller, catching him by the arm, and speaking in an agonized whisper. ‘‘Let him go? No, indeed! Why should I? The infernal scoundrel! The whole country has been looking for you, Joe!’’ He thought he had me, backed up as he was by half-a-dozen men; but I had no intention of being taken then. Retreating down the room until I came opposite a door which led into the kitchen hall, I sprang over the table, knocked down the half-stupefied waiters who faintly opposed me, and, to the music of crashing china and the shouts and cries of men and women, dashed down the passage and out into the darkness. By daylight I could not have escaped; as it was, I easily concealed my flight, and looking back, as I plunged into the forest, saw lights glimmering hither and thither in the grounds, and heard excited cries. Mrs. Chateaubriand’s ball was more of a sensation than she had anticipated.

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chapter x Dr. Milton The next day the whole village of Hampton turned out to look for the desperado who had ventured under its very nose, but the village was too late,—that day I was sleeping off my fatigue in a small room of a miserable boarding-house in one of New York’s quasi-respectable streets. I had decided that, since Miss Miller knew of my being secreted at Gram’me Hooker’s, it would not be safe for me to linger there, only long enough to gather up my slender purse and small effects; I was fortunate enough to reach the night train, which my pursuers were not;—they thought of that train a little too late—and I was off. I felt that this incident would revive the search for me; for some time I remained very quiet in my lodgings, enacting the part of a gentleman in poor health, recovering from an attack of typhoid fever. My looks were sufficiently wretched to support this character; I had grown thin during that exciting summer, pale with confinement and want of exercise, and haggard with anxiety. My erst boyish face began to be covered with a beard which I allowed to grow as it would. I took on the name of John Milton, that the initials might tally with those on my clothes and carpet-bag—a liberty of which I hope the great poet was unconscious,—and was known as Doctor Milton by my landlady and fellow-boarders. It was generally understood that I had contracted fever by visiting hospital-patients, and that as soon as I was recuperated I expected to set up an office and begin the practice of medicine. This was my intention, which I soon carried into effect. I had abandoned my plan of going West, for the present.—I could not place such a distance between myself and Lillian, especially while that which concerned her interests remained in such deep mystery. I did not much fear detection, if I avoided places of public amusement, and kept ‘‘my eyes about me.’’ I was in a quarter of the city which once had been aristocratic, but was now given over to moderate-priced boardinghouses and unfashionable renters. I had no difficulty in getting an office in the basement of a very decent house adjoining that in which I took my meals, with ‘‘John Milton, M. D,’’ in gilt letters, displayed in the window. All the boarders of our house promised me their patronage. One old lady, living on an annuity which left her, sometimes, fifteen or twenty dollars over her expenses at the end

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of a year, seeing how poor and forlorn I evidently was, was so benevolent as to feign a cramp in her foot and a loss of appetite, as an excuse to call me in and pay me three dollars for as many visits. The old lady loved me, I know, from a resemblance, real, or fancied, which I bore to her son, drowned at sea years before, and I was grateful for any one’s love in those days. I passed some quiet, pleasant evenings with her; but I did not take her into my confidence. My great need, in these times, was to hear from Lillian. I could no longer watch my darling from a distance. I could not even know if she were sick, or in want. Gram’me Hooker was no expert with the pen, and I, of course, could write to no one. Many times I wrote long letters to my cousin and then placed them in the fire instead of in the post,—the expression of my anxiety and longing in words was a relief, though I destroyed the sheet the next hour. Miss Miller was now in the city. She returned, with the Chateaubriands, in November, and was still governess in their family. What interested me more, and gave me something to do in the way of speculation, was the fact that Arthur was also in New York, having bidden Hampton farewell, and resumed his practice in a Wall street office. He had not brought Lillian with him as his bride,—nor Inez. Instead, I discovered, by dint of much hovering in that vicinity of evenings, that he was a constant visitor at the Chateaubriand’s in Madison Square. More, he visited there, mornings, like a gentleman of leisure; he sent costly flowers, and came in expensive carriages to take the young ladies out. I made myself familiar with his habits; I knew the price he paid for his board at a stylish hotel; what stables he patronized, and what billiardtables. I was not long in discovering that his income from his practice would not equal the tenth part of his expenditures. There was ‘‘a screw loose’’ somewhere. It might be that he won money in gambling, but I did not think it. I observed no such change in his sister’s habits. I saw her, oftentimes, accompanying her charges, or going with the young ladies to drive or shop. She was always dressed with great plainness, and her demeanor was quiet and sad. The haughty ambition which once spoke in every look and gesture was no longer there. Still, she was a woman who made her presence felt. The Chateaubriands treated her with the greatest respect, and were anxious that she should be contented in their family. I knew that she corresponded regularly with Lillian. Sometimes I was tempted to betray myself to her, and ask for news. I should have been foolish to do so, not knowing how much her mood might have changed since our curious interview in the dining-room at Meredith Place. 276

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It was said that Arthur Miller and Miss Chateaubriand were engaged, with the consent of her parents, the young man, under Mr. Chateaubriand’s skillful direction, having recently gone into some operations in stocks, which had proven highly successful, and given him at least the beginning of a fortune to match with that of his betrothed. I could easily credit that he had attained to this promising position. False, fickle, and of no distinctive talent, he was one of those who wear the gilt all on the outside. He could make his way where more modest and more worthy men were not admitted. Poor Lillian! she had lost her lover when she lost her prospects of wealth. What if this man had her money, without even such poor salve to his conscience as sharing it with her might be? About this time one of those circumstances occurred, which, trifling in themselves, are yet of great importance when fitted into a mosaic of evidence; and are sometimes startling in the appearance which they have of being ordered by a special Providence. One dull December day I was sitting in my office, about as miserable and unoccupied as a man can be, when I was aroused from my reverie by the sight of a span of runaway horses dashing down the street, dragging a light sleigh or cutter in which were two gentlemen. I just had time to observe the danger, when they ran against another stouter vehicle, and their eggshell conveyance was crushed into twenty pieces, the occupants were thrown out, and the maddened horses flew on, scattering robes and fragments on the way. One of the gentlemen struck in a pile of snow which had been shoveled from the walk, and was not at all hurt; the other, less fortunate, was thrown against a lamp-post, and so badly bruised that he was insensible when taken up. He was carried into my office and laid on my threadbare sofa. His head was bleeding from the blow which had stunned him, but he was not otherwise much injured, and I was enabled to assure his alarmed friend that the consequences would not be serious. By the application of stimulants he soon revived, when the crowd dispersed, and his companion, leaving him with me to still farther recover, went to look after the horses. He was gone some time. Meanwhile, my patient lay comfortably on the sofa, bearing his misfortunes like a philosopher. We talked together, when he began to feel like it, and I saw, what I had before conjectured from his features and dress, that he was a Cuban. He was wrapped, almost to his eyes, in rich furs, and his dress was elegant and foppish. He was young and fine-looking, with the yellow complexion, fine silken mustache, and glittering eyes of his countrymen; jewels sparkled in his wristbands and on his slender hands; he glanced about my poor room, half humorously, as if drawing a contrast between it and myself,—for he seemed

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to accord me all the respect I could demand, and to be interested in my conversation. In the midst of our chat, I drew my handkerchief from my pocket. Something came with it, and fell, ringing, upon the floor. It was the silver key! I hastily picked it up, but before I could return it to its receptable, the stranger’s hand was outstretched: ‘‘I beg your pardon; may I look at that?’’ Handing it to him, he turned it over, looked at the date and lettering, and remarked— ‘‘It is a curious key; may I ask where you got it?’’ He had put his question in the shape most difficult to answer. ‘‘It belonged to a friend of mine,’’ I said, not without a hesitation which he must have noticed, ‘‘why do you ask?’’ ‘‘I did not know there were two such in existence. My uncle had one precisely similar to this, which had been in his family since they came from Spain. It belonged to a box, made of mahogany, banded with iron, with steel rivets, in which he, and his father before him, kept their money and jewels. The key was manufactured by a locksmith in Madrid, especially for that box,—yet here is another so much like it I could almost swear the two were one.’’ ‘‘Perhaps they are,’’ I said, ‘‘or could that not be?’’ ‘‘Really, I do not know. My uncle lost his fortune two years ago, by mercantile speculations into which he entered. Being very proud, he took his losses much to heart, finally emigrating to California in the hope of retrieving them. I have not heard what his success has been,—I should think he might do well there; but the sight of this key makes me uneasy. I have neglected him too long. I shall write, as soon as I get to my hotel, ask him to forgive my remissness, and to allow me to hear from him occasionally. But you have not told me the friend’s name who owned this. Perhaps it was my uncle. Have you been in California?’’ ‘‘No. And this key was given to me by an American lady. I think she had it from a gentleman who is now dead, a doctor, who had returned from California but a short time before.’’ ‘‘Ha!’’ ejaculated the young Cuban, deeply interested. He remained thinking for a moment, which gave me a chance also to reflect. If I told him that his uncle was dead, his cousin married and a widow, he would at once demand her place of residence; would doubtless visit her, when he would make known the news by which he had ascertained her whereabouts, and I should no longer be safe in my new locality. The fact that I had in my possession the key to the box would add to the strong presumptive evidence against me. My own safety demanded that I should 278

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keep silence. It must be months before, by inquiries which he might institute in that distant city on the Western shore, he would be able to trace his cousin, and in those months the end to which I had pledged myself might be attained. ‘‘A doctor,’’ resumed my visitor, after a pause; ‘‘that looks bad! Can it be that my uncle is dead; that this physician attended him, perhaps receiving, as his only fee, this empty box, which was once always so crowded with the riches of a proud family?’’ I remained silent. He sat up, now, forgetful of his aching wound, in the interest of the subject: ‘‘If so, I wonder what has become of Inez,’’ he continued, more to himself than me. ‘‘She must be a woman now. I used to fancy the child, little spit-fire though she was. She had so much spirit! bright eyes, too! It is a shame for our family to have neglected her so. I hope her father has not died and left her alone in that wicked city. It would be terrible, though, doubtless, she is married before this. She was a coquette from her cradle— little Inez was—a cunning child;’’ then to me: ‘‘You say the friend is dead who possessed this. Then, I can not seek information in that quarter. I must curb my impatience until I shall hear by letter. Have you any objection to parting with the key?’’ ‘‘I should not like to, unless you have a stronger claim upon it than I.’’ ‘‘I don’t know that I have any—the least—only as a clue to my uncle, who certainly once owned it. If you prize it, I will not ask it; but if you see the lady soon who gave it to you, pray inquire if she knows its history. I will call upon you again before I leave the city.’’ Here his friend returned with word that the horses had injured themselves badly, and that he had sent them to the stable, jested about the accident, and the cost of a sleigh-ride—‘‘a novelty,’’ he said, ‘‘with which he was now sufficiently acquainted.’’ It seemed they had turned off the main routes, because the sleighing was better in our quiet avenue. ‘‘Supposing I should obtain information which I thought you would like to receive?’’ I asked, as they prepared to leave. ‘‘Call on me at the New York Hotel; I shall be there for the next four weeks. Farewell, and many thanks for your attention.’’ He laid his card on the table, along with a gold piece quite too large for the slight service which had been rendered; but I did not see the money until, after they had left, I raised the card. ‘‘ ‘Don Miguel de Almeda’—quite a grand name,’’ I mused, smiling at the pompous sound as I read. ‘‘I wish his Donship had not left so much money. It looks too much like bestowing alms!’’ I, too, was proud, with the pride of an American, who, while he laughs at titles, likes well to pre-

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serve his independence. ‘‘If he comes again, I’ll give him his gold piece; if he don’t, why, it seems as if fate had made me a present of the means for a journey to Meredith Place.’’ My desire to return to Hampton was like the longing and restlessness of a fever-patient; and the first use which it occurred to me to make of the money was to spend it in a secret visit to the Place. I did not feel quite at ease about allowing Don Miguel to go away with no tidings of his cousin. I had boasted to myself my intention of supporting Inez, if Lillian should marry. It is true that my feelings towards the young widow had changed very much since the night I had detected her in a stolen interview with Arthur Miller; I now knew her to be fickle, imprudent, and selfish, if nothing worse. Still she was young, scarcely more than a child, and never had received training to make her otherwise than what she was—the creature of every impulse. I did not mean to be too severe in my condemnation of her conduct. If this cousin of hers really felt any interest in her, it would probably be very greatly to her advantage that he should be allowed to know where she was. He was rich and liberal. It was natural to suppose that he would take her with him to her relatives in Cuba, if she would consent to go. This would be much better for her than giving lessons on the guitar. It would certainly be a hundred times better for Lillian. I knew as well as if I could see their daily life, how Inez’ petulance and complaining wore upon my cousin, and that the burden of the work must rest upon her shoulders. It would be cowardly in me to place my own convenience in the way of the interest of either of those two girls. I was not long in making up my mind that I would call upon the Don and inform him where his cousin Inez could be found. But, before taking such a step, it was evident that I must be prepared to quit my present name and locality, and that so prudently as to leave no trace of my flight; for Don Miguel would of course relate by what means he had discovered his cousin, when it would at once be surmised who had the key of the missing box, and I should be arrested in less than three days. ‘‘It will be a month before he leaves the city,’’ I said to myself. ‘‘In ten days it will be Christmas. I will take my holiday then. One brief visit, under cover of night and darkness, to the old place; one stolen look at Lillian’s face—then, if nothing occurs to give me farther hope of a speedy resolution of the problem, I will return, place Don Miguel on the track of his cousin, and myself fly to some more distant city, where I can go to work with a will, to do something for my darling’s ease and comfort. Inez will be provided for; perhaps, also, Lillian, for the Don —’’ Here a spasm of jealousy shook my heart-strings. The Cuban gentleman was young and attractive in every way—he could not meet Lillian without 280

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being enchanted by her! what was to be expected but that they should love one another? If Lillian’s affections were not hopelessly fixed upon Arthur, nothing, I argued, could prevent those two from becoming interested in each other. The Cuban, accustomed to the darker charms of the South, would be doubly alive to the exquisite type of my cousin’s beauty; while he, so gallant, so graceful in every movement, full of pride and high spirits, would appear to her as if one of the heroes had walked out of a poet’s story to meet her. Well, why should it not be so? This would furnish for her all that I craved for her welfare—love, protection, and wealth. Ought I not, poor as I was, resting under a cloud, compelled to work under every disadvantage, to be glad to throw such a chance in her way? I had not the least idea that my cousin ever thought of me, except as a cousin, and a vagrant one at that. She no more guessed the passion I felt for her than that she had a lover in the moon. I said to myself that I should like to know that she was mated with one who struck me as favorably as this young gentleman. But my heart gave the words the lie. It would make me unutterably miserable to know it. Was unutterable misery too great a sacrifice to make for her? No, it was not! I would make it. My plan should be carried out. Perhaps better days were in store for all but me. I can afford to smile sadly now as I look back and recall with what a brave struggle I nerved myself to send a suitor to the feet of the girl I loved—a lover to my own darling.

chapter xi A Heart-Vail Thrown Aside Christmas eve was passing into Christmas morn as the midnight train dropped me at Hampton station. A slouched hat and thick overcoat were all the disguise needed at that lonely hour; I felt no apprehension of being recognized, even if I should encounter acquaintances. The train went roaring off into the distance, and I turned to my solitary walk. The moon hung directly in the zenith, the snow lay in dazzling whiteness everywhere; it was the perfection of a winter night,—calm, brilliant, cold. The station was between Hampton and Meredith Place; between the station and the latter place was the cemetery of the village. As I passed it,

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its white tomb-stones standing solemnly in the whiter moonlight, looking so desolate as they rose out of the drifted snow, my heart urged me to go in and linger a few moments by the graves of my relatives—by his grave, dearest friend I ever had, save one. For I had loved my uncle as I loved no other human being except his daughter. Mine was not one of those natures to love swiftly and warmly—to forget quickly and coldly. With me, love was deathless. Opening the smaller gate, I passed along the untrodden road until I came to the path which led off to two mounds rising side by side, one crowned with a slender marble shaft, the other as yet unmarked. The path to these graves bore the print of feet which had come and gone more than once; and as I knelt beside them, I saw myrtle wreaths laid on both, while on Dr. Meredith’s was a garland of the most fragrant and costly hot-house flowers, so fresh that I could guess that it had not been there many hours. I knew who placed it there. I had informed myself of Miss Miller’s intention to spend her fortnight’s holiday with Lillian in her humble little home. Lillian was to have a brief vacation, like the rest, and her former governess was to visit her, not only for the enjoyment of her society, but to clear up some of the difficulties in the path of the young teacher. From a dark corner of the New York depot I had watched Miss Miller depart, six hours earlier than myself, and in her hand she had carried this wreath; I could guess that she, too, had paused, in coming, at this cemetery, and had left here, under the shadow of the twilight, this token of remembrance, unseen by mortal eyes. Would a murderess deposit flowers on the grave of her victim? The thought struck me there with the force of something new. Still, many a woman has murdered the man she passionately loved, giving up her after-life to remorse and despair. But flowers! O, how could she bring them to mock this cold and glittering mound, if she had anything to do in bringing the sleeper here?—tearing him away from life, when at its fullest and best, to bind him here an untimely prisoner! To think of it made me furious. I caught the wreath, and tore it in a hundred parts, which I threw as far from the grave thus desecrated, as my arm had strength to hurl them. ‘‘Murderess! murderess! murderess!’’ I kept hissing between my shut teech, as I did so. ‘‘No! do not call me by that dreadful name.’’ I started as the unexpected voice said this, close at my side,—deep, trying to be firm, but trembling with pathetic weakness,—started as if a ghost had risen from the tombs about me. ‘‘You, Miss Miller, here, at this hour of the night!’’ ‘‘Why do you persecute me?’’ she continued, reproachfully, with a man282

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ner so totally unlike her usual haughty self-possession, that I was touched in spite of myself. ‘‘My poor flowers, even, are not allowed to warm his icy grave—I, who loved him with a love which put to shame the tamer and more selfish affection of all his other friends! Lillian, poor child! she truly appreciated him. I love her. I would do anything for her; but that other— that soulless, heartless thing! neither woman nor child, without feeling, save for herself! without power to understand what happiness was hers! she, young tigress!—I have no word of scorn and hate to express her. It is time we understood each other, Joseph Meredith. Let us no longer play this silly game of hide-and-seek. Denounce me to the authorities, if you will. Go boldly to Hampton village, and tell them you have found the woman who did the deed. Call me, in the face of the world, as you called me now, to those deaf ears of the dead—murderess. Give them what proofs you have,—the key, the handkerchief. Relate my midnight wanderings. Or I, if I so determine, will denounce you!—will point out your little office where John Milton practices medicine when he can find a patient! You see I know all. I am, at least, as sharp, and have as set a purpose, as yourself. Let us no longer treat each other as secret enemies; let us be open in our warfare. So, if you wish it; as for me, I would rather enter into a league with you. I admire your subtlety and your perseverance. I believe if we enter into a compact to serve each other, that both will sooner arrive at the truth. Both have the same object in view. Why not join forces?’’ ‘‘My object is to discover and punish my uncle’s murderer,’’ I replied,

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coldly, although intensely surprised at her excited words, especially at her last request. ‘‘To punish that murderer, without show of mercy, be it man or woman; and to restore, if possible, to my beloved cousin, the patrimony of which she has been so relentlessly robbed.’’ ‘‘Our aims are identical; then why not enter into a partnership? I know, perfectly, that for a long time, you believed me—me only—to be the guilty person; that at times, even yet, though you have seen things which have shaken your first impressions, they return upon you at intervals, as they did to-night. I acknowledge, also, that for some time, I believed you were the criminal; but I now exonerate you in my own mind, from the slightest suspicion. I have satisfied myself by watching you. If I were called to the witness-stand tomorrow, I should swear my conviction of your innocence. You think me hard and designing, but I try always to do justice. You disliked me, because you thought I had designs upon your uncle. I had, if to love a man as I loved Doctor Meredith, can be called having a design upon him. I appreciated him; I enjoyed studies which he enjoyed; the bent of our tastes was similar. I felt, that, should he be drawn to love me, we should be very happy together. I acknowledge that, during his absence in California, I was upheld in our loneliness and almost absolute poverty, to do my duty to his child, and take care of his house, by the hope that, on his return, he would see what I was to him, and we should be married. Was there anything selfish or vile in that? You are young, sir, and youth, let me tell you, is ever critical and exacting in proportion to its own inexperience and vanity. Had you been older, better read in the world, you would not have been so free in launching your arrows of scorn at a woman, the depth of whose nature yours could not fathom.’’ She paused a moment, in a superb attitude of passion and tragic grief, the frosty moonlight increasing the pallor of her face, her eyes blazing, her lips quivering; I was silent, for I felt the force of what she said, and remorse for the many wicked opinions I had indulged against her. ‘‘You must be aware,’’ she went on, ‘‘that I was sacrificing much in remaining, as I did, at Meredith Place,—and if I expected my reward, what was that more than others, than you, yourself, would do? I did look forward to a union with Doctor Meredith, but I should not have cherished this expectation had I not felt myself entirely capable of being his friend and helpmeet as well as his wife. God knows I was selfish, in that I expected to be so blessed, after a lonely and desolate life,—but not entirely selfish, for I looked, also, to his happiness.’’ She paused again. ‘‘It was not pleasant for me to feel that you were always watching me, nor that you laughed at my feeling, setting me down as a woman too old to be romantic,—only you could truly love, beardless boy that you were! It is never agreeable for a woman to have her love suspected before she 284

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is certain of its return; hence, I did not like you to play the spy upon my heart. I did not like you, your antecedents, nor the promise you gave for the future. I was willing that Lillian should have opportunity to see other young men, before she became entangled with you, and I brought on my brother Arthur, and introduced her to the young society of the village, with the purpose of giving her freedom of choice. You put the worst construction on all my actions; so be it,—I forgive you for it, if only you will work with me for an object in which we have equal interest. ‘‘When Dr. Meredith brought home that silly creature, you alone guessed the effect it had upon me. The first few hours I was stunned by the blow. Pride enabled me to keep up appearances, but I was wretched, most wretched for my own sake. But, when I grew calm enough to look upon her, I began to be miserable for his sake. I saw the mistake he had made— a mistake which one of his generous and unworldly nature would be sure to make under the circumstances.’’ She was silent, apparently lost in painful recollections. ‘‘You have called her a silly creature, a child, and a tigress,’’ I remarked, after a moment; ‘‘do you speak at random?’’ ‘‘No, she is all three:—a child in want of discipline; silly by the narrowness of her mind and smallness of her ideas; a tigress in passion, when her Southern blood is aroused.’’ ‘‘Then why have you permitted your brother to be so attentive to her?’’ ‘‘Some things must be permitted that others may be accomplished. O, to think of her, allowing her wayward fancies to run after other men, when he, her benefactor and husband, lies here with the snow above him—the cold snow!’’ Her last words were sobbed out, and she made a movement as if to throw herself on his grave, but restrained herself, wiped the icy drops which were freezing on her cheeks, and went on— ‘‘Tell me, truly, Mr. Meredith, have you not reversed your decision with regard to me? Have you not been forced to conclude that I am not the guilty party?—(as if I would have harmed a hair of his head!)’’ in an undertone to herself. ‘‘Is there not another person whose conduct really gives rise to more suspicion than mine?’’ ‘‘There is,’’ I said, after an instant’s hesitation. ‘‘Would you spare her any more than me, if she should be found guilty by you and me in our researches?’’ ‘‘No, I would not,’’ I answered, shuddering. She noticed the shiver, and seemed to think I was cold. ‘‘I will not keep you here any longer,’’ she said. ‘‘Possibly, too, we might be observed. How long did you expect to stay in this vicinity?’’ ‘‘Only twenty-four hours.’’

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‘‘Will you be at Gram’me Hooker’s? I ask, because I would like to see you again, to compare notes with regard to a certain person.’’ ‘‘I do not know. Is there a tenant now, at Meredith Place?’’ ‘‘Lillian told me there was none. The house is entirely empty. If you wish to go there, no place will be safer,—for the stories of its being haunted keep all intruders away. I came out to-night, after Lillian and Inez were in bed. I wished to visit this place alone. I had little thought of your being here. If you were the murderer you would fly from, instead of to, this grave.’’ ‘‘Perhaps,—though I have heard of guilty consciences which forever urged their owners on to the lonely hollows or the deep wells where the bodies of their victims lay concealed. Miss Miller, I will not pretend a friendship which I do not wholly feel. I have been too deeply prejudiced to change my opinion suddenly; but this I will say, that I am ready to cooperate with you in any scheme to discover the cause or motive of my uncle’s death, and the whereabouts of his fortune. Has it never occurred to you that he might have been driven to suicide by unpleasant discoveries with regard to his young wife?’’ ‘‘It has,’’ she said quickly; ‘‘but the idea is always controverted by the probability that, in such a case, he would have left his dying message, before he drank the fatal draught. We should have known the meaning of that mystery—the figure eight.’’ ‘‘True.’’ ‘‘We must not linger here. I will talk with you about these matters tomorrow. In the afternoon, just before tea, I will walk out to Meredith Place. Are you not going?’’ ‘‘In a moment.’’ She turned away, and I, stooping, plucked a spray from the myrtle which Lillian had twined for her mother’s grave. Kissing the dry, senseless leaves, I placed them in my note-book, and struck off into the woods which fringed one side of the cemetery. No leaves now on the bare and glittering branches, which swung with melancholy and mysterious moans, above me, while the crisp snow crackled under my feet. By a circuitous route through the familiar forest I gained Meredith Place, deserted now even by Tiger. The mansion loomed up in the night, huge and desolate; the ivy waving from the stone tower seemed the only living thing there. I was greatly agitated as I approached it, so much had been done and suffered in that house, I could not behold it again, after an absence, without emotion. I soon found a window which yielded to my efforts, and opening it, I entered, closed it behind me, and was alone in the shadowy, dimlymoonlighted, chilly house, which, one year ago, had been so warm and bright with love, hope, and gay young life. 286

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Too much agitated to feel sleepy, I walked through all the familiar rooms, in which the old furniture still kept its place. The clock was silent now, in the silent hall. In a freak of fancy I climbed to the face and wound it up. ‘‘If visitors should come here within the week, they will swear the place is haunted, sure enough,’’ I thought, as I turned the key and set the pendulum to swinging. Immediately the voice of the old clock pealed out loud and clear, ringing through the empty mansion with startling distinctness. Again, as once before—eight! I can not describe how solemn and powerful the effect upon my excited mind. Did the time-piece always pause at that precise point, when it run down,—or was this a chance coincidence? Doubtless the first; but it did not seem thus to me, as I stood alone in the deserted house, long bars of moonlight and black groups of shadows dividing the hall. That startling peal, ringing out for my ear alone, seemed to me my uncle’s voice. It said— ‘‘You are sleeping,—you are letting the months go by; my body is mouldering into dust, my friends are forgetting me—while you rest upon your promise. Work! work! Do not grow discouraged—do not be fooled by a woman’s art, nor give way to compassion, nor be deceived by one or the other, until the pledge you gave is redeemed: Remember the figure eight!’’ As if I ever thought of anything else!

chapter xii Two Steps in the Right Direction I awoke, the next morning, in a broad blaze of light, the cloudless sun shining on the crusted snow. The village bells were calling to church, and I found, by consulting my watch, that it was ten o’clock. I had slept well in my old bed in my own old room, despite of its want of airing; and if I now felt rather stiff in the joints, a few minutes exercise got rid of that. The wallet which I brought with me was filled with provisions, for I anticipated being my own provider. A loaf of bread, some crackers and cheese, dried beef, and a small package of tea, promised me sustenance for more than one day, should any circumstance arise to detain me. I felt the necessity for something warm to drink, and for a fire; but I did not intend to commit the imprudence of kindling a fire in the kitchen, whose smoke would betray me. I recalled to mind the furnace in the laboratory, and the charcoal ready to my hand, and, having obtained a covered

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saucepan from the dresser, I betook myself to the room which I could not visit, even for this homely purpose, without strange sensations. Taking the precaution to turn the key in the door, I busied myself preparing my simple breakfast. Having obtained water from a well under cover of the laundry, and dusted a shelf on which to spread out my food, I turned my attention to the small furnace which my uncle had caused to be placed in the laboratory, to assist him in his experiments. I proposed to kindle a few coals in its mouth, sufficient to steep my cup of tea: but I no sooner took down the little iron door before it, than I saw that some person or persons had been here since my last visit to the room. This was not surprising, as the summer tenants had remained several weeks after my flight. Some member of the family might have had occasion to use a fire and a crucible, if only to mend some piece of furniture; but, as I lifted the crucible to give the saucepan its place, something which gleamed in the bottom caused me to carry it to the window—to forget my charcoal and my tea; everything but the fact that a few grains of gold clung there to the bottom of that vessel. They had not been there when I went away! My thought leaped instantly to one conclusion: this was Doctor Meredith’s gold; some one had discovered it, or had known its whereabouts from the first, and, afraid to use it in the shape of bullion, was surreptitiously smelting it, as opportunity offered. For a few moments the blood ran as molten in my veins as if I had been tried in that furnace; but I soon grew calm enough to consider the situation. The first question which presented itself was, whether the gold had all been disposed of, or whether the party was still engaged in the work. If the latter, all I had to do was to cover all trace of a visitor having been to the house, and patiently, tirelessly watch, until I detected the surreptitious operator at his work. Forgetting all about my breakfast, I commenced investigations in the room. But the inference that others visited Meredith Place—that I was not the only ghost, made me very careful. I closed the blinds to the window, hung something before the key-hole of the door, and proceeded cautiously in my examination. It was, as I have said before, a room in which one had rich opportunities for concealment, full as it was of nooks and crannies, cupboards, shelves, drawers. It was more than an hour before I reached the ash-hole—a little iron box under the furnace, where refuse was thrown. It looked very innocent in its dust and ashes, but as I poked about with a pair of long pincers, they struck against something hard beneath the little heap of ashes, and in another instant I held in my hand the dies for coining the 288

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gold eagles of the United States! I felt then, as children say, when playing hide-and-seek, that I was ‘‘warm’’—very near the objects of weary months of ‘‘seeking.’’ The sweat broke out on my forehead; my first impulse was to thank God that this much had been accomplished! Now, I must set the trap to catch the rat! I replaced the dies exactly as I found them, threw back the ashes in the same careless heap, removing every trace of disturbance. I was even sorry that I had dusted the shelf, for I could not replace the dust, and, gathering up my breakfast, I betook myself to an upper chamber, content to eat it cold. When I had satisfied my hunger, I made my bed, locked myself in my chamber, that no one might too suddenly surprise me, and placed myself in a window-recess with a book which I had brought with me to help pass the time. I dared not venture to Gram’me Hooker’s by daylight, and many hours must intervene before the interview appointed with Miss Miller. But I did not much enjoy reading. In the first place, I was cold, and I remembered how merry were most homes on that festival day. I pictured the children with their gifts, and their elders, sitting down to tables laden with choice feasts. I was lonely—homeless—nameless—an outcast, and unutterably sad. I thought of Lillian. My longing eyes turned ever in the direction of the little white dwelling, which I could not see, but of which my fancy made a picture. I was so afraid my darling was not comfortable—that she suffered actual want, and I felt that she must be sorely tried by this first recurrence of the Christmas festival since her affliction. It was cruel that I could not go to her and offer her my sympathy; that I was driven, by the persecutions of those who were perhaps themselves the criminals, from her society. Flinging my book down, I walked back and forth to prevent numbness from the cold, pondering upon how I should conclude to receive Miss Miller’s overtures, which had so surprised me. While her tone and manner were those of a sorrowful and truthful woman, I did not forget that duplicity wears all colors, and that she might be seeking my friendship in order to get possession of the key and handkerchief, and perhaps to make a tool of me to work out her own designs. Yet I had no longer any reason to suppose that she had the least knowledge of the stolen property. My brain was dull and heavy with the everlasting pressure of the subject; yet a horror, to which all previous dread was light, crept over me—chilled me, thrilled me, when I saw that the finger of fate pointed towards her of whom the governess and myself were now both suspicious! The weary day crept on—a doleful Christmas to me, with only one glint of brightness in it—the feeling that I was near to Lillian. The afternoon shadows were growing long, when I heard the clash of the closing gate,

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and approaching voices. Peering between the curtains, I saw Miss Miller, Lillian, and Inez, coming up the avenue. Miss Miller talked a little loud, I could infer, with the purpose of warning me to conceal myself, and, as they drew near, looked up and flirted her handkerchief. Her face was anxious, which led me to believe that the girls had insisted on bearing her company against her wish. I could only stand there, like a man in a trance, drinking in the consciousness of Lillian’s presence. It is well the curtains concealed me, or I fear I should not have had the sense to withdraw. I had a good look at her, as she came slowly up the walk, the great key of the hall-door in her hand. They had asked permission to visit their old home, that there might appear nothing hidden about it. She looked eagerly from side to side, as if recalling every bush and shrub. Not even the ghastly shadow of this tragedy could wholly obscure the bloom and roundness of her youthful face: time alone could complete the work which sorrow had begun; but she was pale, for her, and the enchanting gayety of expression was gone. My door was fastened, and, as I knew that the governess would take the precaution to precede the others and divert their attention, I gave myself no uneasiness about being discovered. I heard Inez give one of her little shrieks as she entered the hall, and I thought about the clock which I had set going. ‘‘I must stop that,’’ I thought. ‘‘I will not stay one moment. I know the house is haunted,’’ I heard the Cuban girl cry, while the others, with lower voices, strove to pacify her alarm. Presently they came up stairs, Miss Miller, as most courageous, taking the advance, looking into all the chambers as they passed along. She laughed lightly, when, trying mine, she found it locked. ‘‘I told you, Inez, the owners had been about the place. Of course, they take care of their property—probably visit it every few days. For all I know, they keep the clock wound all the time. They have fastened up this room,—bed-linen in it, probably, or something they are afraid might be carried off.’’ ‘‘Oh, let us go down. I don’t like it up here at all. I’m sorry I came; but Lillian would have her own way.’’ I longed to hear my cousin’s voice. ‘‘This morning you said you would like to come,’’ she spoke, soft, clear, as she always spoke. ‘‘Oh, but I changed my mind. If the house was full of company it would be different; but it is so cold, so gloomy! I wonder if the Chateaubriands will be here next summer?’’ No one answered. The other two were not dreaming of summer festi290

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vals. Soon they made the round and descended the staircase. Presently, I heard the sound of weeping in the next room, which had been Dr. Meredith’s sleeping-chamber, the death-room of the first wife, the bridalchamber of the last. I knew that Lillian had gone there to give way to her sorrow. Every sob she uttered struck to my heart. In a few moments some one else rushed in, and I heard Inez cry: ‘‘Miss Miller went off to the laboratory, and left me entirely alone, as if she did not know I would be frightened to death. I ran up here to find you. I would not stay alone for the world. What are you crying for, child? Oh, I know.’’ There was a brief silence; even Inez could forget herself for an interval, in this place. She was the first to speak again. ‘‘Lillian, I should think you might answer me, now! You know what I asked you this morning. I don’t see anything to prevent, now that Miss Miller has come; I could go home with her, do my shopping, and come back. You must have money to spare, now that your quarter’s pay has come in.’’ I did not hear what was said in answer; but Inez spoke up in the shrill voice which was hers when she was in a passion. ‘‘My clothes are dreadfully shabby. I did not have opportunity to replenish them, after the sea-voyage, which spoiled what few I had, before— before you know what. And we had only enough to do at the time we made

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up our mourning. I wish now the doctor had stopped on our way here, in New York, and bought me the jewels he promised me. I should have them, at least. But he was in such a hurry to get home! He promised to take me to the city soon. I think now, Lillian, you ought to keep your father’s promise. I must go to New York!’’ Again the unheard reply, and again the passionate voice. ‘‘Avaricious? Yes, I did not think it of you! Some of that money is mine. I gave guitar-lessons to two pupils. I ought to have a great deal for that! Never mind, Lillian Meredith, I shall not long be your slave; I shall not long hide myself in this dull village. I am accustomed to a different life. If I had known to what I was coming, I would have staid in California. I will go to New York, I tell you. I must see Arthur Miller!’’ ‘‘Oh, Inez!’’ burst from my cousin’s lips, ‘‘can not you wait until he comes to see you? Such conduct would not be proper.’’ ‘‘Proper? I hate propriety! He will not come to see me. I hear he is engaged to Miss Chateaubriand; and I must see him and ask him if he dares coquette with her, after he has told me that he loved me.’’ ‘‘So soon? Oh, Inez!’’ ‘‘It is not so very soon. I did not propose to marry him until after my year of mourning has expired.’’ ‘‘And you have already forgotten my father?’’ ‘‘No, I have not forgotten him. He was my good friend. But I never loved him! You did not suppose a young girl like me could love an old man like that! He was kind to me, like a father, and I married him because there was nothing else for me to do. He was very fine—a gentleman—but not like Arthur Miller! You must acknowledge there was a difference, Lillian.’’ ‘‘I say it is more natural for me to love a person of my own age and tastes,’’ continued the Cuban, when she gained no reply, ‘‘just as you will when you have a suitor. Perhaps you are jealous?’’ with a mocking laugh. ‘‘I believe he fancied you before I came. Ah! all I am afraid of is that he is a coquette. Lillian, if we could find that box of gold, I think he would marry me. It is because I am poor and Miss Chateaubriand is rich. But he loves me best; I know that.’’ Poor Lily sighed a sigh so much of a groan that I heard it where I stood. Poor child! I could only pray that a marriage, or something else, might quickly free her from such companionship. Presently, Inez began, in a coaxing voice, putting aside her passion: ‘‘Lily, sweet, I’m going to tell you something which I have never before mentioned. I knew the doctor hid that gold the night before he died. I complained of having it in the room with us; said I was afraid we should be murdered if we kept so much gold in our closet. I got up such a panic about it,—you know how timid I am, Lillian!—that, at last, he indulged me by 292

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removing it. He said he knew where there was a very safe place where burglars would never think of looking for it, and he tugged and rolled the box away and came back, after almost an hour, when I was actually asleep, and woke me up by saying, laughingly, that ‘I was safe now.’ Why do you look so surprised?’’ My cousin’s voice was inaudible. ‘‘At first, I was too frightened. I was afraid they would think strange of it after what happened. Afterwards, I thought, if I told of it so late, it would look stranger still. Indeed, indeed, I have tried very hard to find it. If we could only find it, Lily, we should be rich. You could give up that dreary school, and Arthur would marry me. Oh, I wish we could, now, before it is too late.’’ I think my cousin asked if she had never told any one, for Inez answered: ‘‘Never—that is—nobody but Arthur.’’ ‘‘You should not have told him!’’ exclaimed Lillian, quite loudly. ‘‘Don’t you think if you and Miss Miller and I were to search everywhere, we might find it? I can not tell you how I have looked,—hours and days in all. But, there she comes. Don’t speak of it to-night; it is getting too late. But to-morrow or some time.’’ The voice of the governess now mingled with theirs; presently they went down, and looking out, I saw Lillian and Inez walking rapidly away. It was nearly dark. I wished to see gram’me before the old creature was in bed, and I desired my interview with Miss Miller to be brief. I had decided not to confide to her at present the important discovery I had made. If she were not honestly anxious for the truth, it would be placing the weapon in her hand with which to defeat me. She came to the door and knocked, and we descended to the parlor together. ‘‘I sent my companions away,’’ she said. ‘‘They wished to come, and, to avoid suspicion, I was obliged to allow them. Did you see Lillian? You must have had a cheerless day of it here. Do you go back to-night?’’ ‘‘Probably,—but I will not say certainly.’’ ‘‘Do you find traces of other spirits haunting this house besides ourselves?’’ ‘‘I think there have been others here.’’ ‘‘Is my cousin well? is her school a success?’’ ‘‘She is well, but very sad. I think the care of that Cuban girl more onerous to her than the charge of the school. Both united will soon tell, even on her young vitality.’’ ‘‘I think your brother has made love to Inez, Miss Miller. I shall be glad when they can be decently married,—for Lily’s sake.’’ ‘‘He shall never marry her,’’ she cried. ‘‘Do you think I would submit to

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that? I would rather see him dead. He is engaged to Miss Chateaubriand, and they will be married early next summer.’’ ‘‘Then he is a villain,’’ I said, coolly, ‘‘for I know he has made love to Inez.’’ ‘‘Well, how could he help it? Say rather that she made love to him—that will be nearer the truth. Still, I want you to understand that I do not defend Arthur. He is vain, frivolous, without any fixed principles; and, I am afraid unless he soon marries and settles down, will become dissipated. I do not like the new habits he is forming. I do not know how he continues to make so much money, though he talks largely of his stock operations. I do not entirely approve of Miss Chateaubriand,—but she is good enough for him. I should desire to see him marry Lillian, only he is not worthy of her. I know it as well as you. I have done what I could for him, as a sister; I have been sister and mother to him. He no longer respects my advice. Henceforth he must make or break his own fortunes.’’ She spoke sadly, and I pitied her. ‘‘He ought to be advised of one thing,’’ I said; ‘‘that it is not safe to trifle with a person like Inez Meredith. Her impulses carry her judgment quite away. She is revengeful, too.’’ ‘‘I know it,—but as he makes his bed, so he must lie in it; I have warned him.’’ ‘‘I think I know of a way of disposing of her, which will relieve Lillian, yourself, and all concerned,’’ I said, after a little hesitation. I saw no reason for keeping from my companion the fact of Don Miguel de Almeda’s relationship to Inez, since it now appeared that Miss Miller was aware of my residence in the city, and of my assumed name. I could ask her not to allow the affair of the silver key to be made public, and she would have as much object as I in preventing it. ‘‘How is that?’’ I answered her by telling her of the Don, his recognition of the silver key, and his apparent interest in his cousin. ‘‘I am quite certain he would take her to her friends in Cuba,’’ I concluded, ‘‘and that she would be glad to go. She imagines herself in love with your brother, because, for the time being, he is the only object upon which her roving fancy can conveniently settle; but, once let her have the opportunity to pass into a sphere where she can throw off all memory of her distasteful life here, and she will eagerly accept it.’’ ‘‘I think so,’’ responded Miss Miller, evidently gratified. ‘‘We can ask nothing better than that,—it is far better than she deserves,’’ she added, bitterly; still, I don’t know that it is for us to pass judgment upon her, or to punish her. She will get her deserts in the next world, if not in this.’’ I then told Miss Miller what I had overheard Inez confess—that Doctor Meredith had himself taken the box from the closet and concealed it, the 294

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night before his death, at her instigation. ‘‘Now,’’ said I, ‘‘this is a fact of the utmost importance. It makes one of two theories certain. Either Inez is herself both murderess and robber—and, heartily as I despise her, I do not conceive that she has either cunning or courage to execute these desperate crimes—or else some inmate of, or visitor to, this house, happened, or purposely watched, to see the doctor dispose of that box, and formed the resolution to compass his death in order to secure the tempting treasure. It would seem as if only one of the family could have poisoned him in the manner it was done. Who else would bring him wine, and from what hand, except the hand of a friend, would he accept it?’’ We looked each other full in the face. It was deep twilight now, but the eyes of both were blazing, and we each looked the more pale for the dusky shadows about us. I was trying to read her inmost soul, and she was thinking, no doubt, strange thoughts of me. It was as if circumstances compelled us to suspect each other. Had there been any servants whose conduct made them liable to suspicion, then our speculations would not have taken so narrow a range. For the moment, all the vague impressions we had received of the Cuban girl’s wickedness faded out—nothing seemed more improbable than that she should have had anything to do with the catastrophe: with eager, piercing gaze, we searched each other. The governess was the first to break the spell. ‘‘In vain;’’ she said; ‘‘man by man was never seen. Let us not foolishly anger each other. All we can do is to discover the truth by patient investigation. How soon, after your return to the city, shall Inez have reason to expect her cousin?’’ ‘‘As soon as he chooses to seek her. I shall see him within one or two days of my return. I must first give myself time to settle my own small affairs, for I shall not remain in New York after I have sent Don Miguel to Hampton.’’ ‘‘I shall be sorry to know you are driven away for this cause. Why do you change again? I pledge you my word of honor that you shall not be molested from any cause arising out of this, or which I can prevent.’’ ‘‘Nay, you can not promise for others. I shall not rashly place my life in any one’s hands. Don Miguel, when he comes here and hears the story of his cousin’s widowhood, will at once see that the young man who had the key, was the runaway and suspected nephew of the doctor. He may feel it his duty to denounce me.’’ ‘‘I will persuade him to a different course.’’ ‘‘You could hardly give good reasons for doing so, without causing him to think strangely of you. I shall again change my place and name. And I may as well bid you farewell here and now, Miss Miller, as I wish to run over and see my old friend, Gram’me Hooker, before she is in bed.’’

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‘‘Yes, it is time I was going. Well, goodbye.’’ She held out her hand, I touched it, and she was gone. If it had not been for her and her brother, I felt that I should not have been the nameless wanderer which I was; my bitter enmity could not change into friendship in an hour; though I had reversed many of my first opinions, I still felt harshly towards the governess.

chapter xiii The New Year’s Call On the afternoon of New Year’s day, three women sat around the cheerful fire in Lillian’s little parlor. A small table in one corner held a loaf of cake and bottle of wine, for such friends as were intimate enough to be permitted to call,—the pastor, and a few others, were expected in the course of the day or evening, but the family was not at home to general visitors. For some time there had been silence. Miss Miller sat in the arm-chair, her elbow resting on the arm, her chin in her hand, the heavy square brows drawn down, and the deep eyes shining underneath with unshed tears; she was gazing into the bed of coals, while the flush of the fire-light playing over her stern, sallow face, gave it a bloom which was no longer its due. Inez was on an ottoman, restless as usual, now thrumming her guitar, then getting up and going to the window, only to resume her seat with a sigh and a querulous word. She wore almost her only ornaments, a brooch and ear-rings of pearls; a few white flowers were placed in the heavy braids of her purple-black hair. Lillian sat opposite Miss Miller, dressed with her usual plainness, a few geranium leaves lying in their fragrant greenness amid the glossy gold of her curls, being her only attempt at keeping holiday. Some kind of embroidery occupied her fingers, and if she sometimes made a misstitch from the tears which dimmed her eyes, she patiently wiped them away and began again. The slumberous spell of the silence and the warm fire quieted even Inez at last; she sat full fifteen minutes without speaking or moving, looking listlessly out at the people who passed. I did not see the group which I so boldly describe; as I said once before, the links of my story, needed to fill up the gaps, were supplied by others. But I afterwards felt the influence of that day and hour on my own life. ‘‘Don’t you think Arthur will come to see us to-day?’’ Inez finally broke the silence by inquiring. ‘‘Didn’t you say, Miss Miller, that he would be here during your visit?’’ 296

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‘‘He said he might come to escort me home. But I’m quite positive he will not be here to-day. He has a great many friends in the city, and this, as you know, is a great day there. He is too fond of pleasure to follow me out to this dull village before his New Year’s calls are made.’’ ‘‘We are dull, I know,’’ said Inez, bitterly. ‘‘You don’t flatter us, Miss Miller. You are not as great a flatterer as your brother. Of course he has troops of beautiful lady friends who are dressed in jewels and flowers, and stand in their grand parlors to receive him. He would be foolish to think of us at such a time. Once I had all these things, and I mean to have them again! No one cares for you unless you are able to keep up style. It is worth making an effort to get it. I am as handsome as any of them, I know, when I can dress myself properly. Oh, I am so tired of this village! Do you really think he will come at all, Miss Miller?’’ ‘‘I am nowise certain about it.’’ ‘‘There!’’ cried Inez, ‘‘there is some one on the steps now. Perhaps it is he! The train came in a short time ago.’’ Miss Miller was also thoroughly aroused. She had been, for two or three days, expecting a visitor to inquire for Mrs. Meredith—but not her brother Arthur. ‘‘How slow your old servant is growing, Lillian,’’ exclaimed Inez, impatiently. ‘‘He has had to knock the second time.’’ ‘‘Don’t find fault with her,’’ said Lillian, softly. ‘‘What should we do without her? Here she comes with a card.’’ The old woman handed it to Miss Meredith; she never would acknowledge the other as her mistress, and had given the card to Lillian, although Inez had been particularly inquired for. ‘‘Don Miguel de Almeda,’’ read the young girl, aloud. ‘‘My cousin,’’ cried Inez, flinging her guitar to one side, springing to her feet and clapping her hands with the joy and excitement of a child. She was about to rush to the door, then hesitated, changed color, trembled, and hung back. ‘‘Shall I tell her to show him in?’’ asked Miss Miller. ‘‘Oh, yes. I am so glad,’’ murmured Inez, recovering from the check, whatever it was, which had embarrassed her feelings. ‘‘Lillian, you will like him so! There is no one here to compare with him.’’ The next moment the young gentleman entered, and the Cuban girl, springing forward, threw her arms about his neck with a little cry. He spoke with her a moment or two in Spanish; Lillian did not understand it, but Miss Miller did; they were words natural to the occasion of greeting, to affection and surprise. ‘‘My little cousin grown up, married, and a widow!’’ he exclaimed, after the first welcome. ‘‘How strange it seems to me!’’

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‘‘Yes,’’ said Inez, bursting into tears, ‘‘a widow, Miguel. Could you believe it?’’ and she looked piteously at her black dress. Then she remembered others enough to wipe her eyes and introduce her friends. ‘‘My little cousin’s step-daughter! the quaintest thing of all!’’ he said, smilingly, as Lillian gave him her hand; and his dark eyes, warm with the tropic glow of his nature, rested admiringly on her fairest face. ‘‘I too, am a relative—remember that!’’ he continued, still with a gayety that was charming because so natural, and releasing the little hand, he turned to bow to Miss Miller. Summer seemed to have come into the small, low room. Lillian could but look at him more than she wished. It was her first meeting with one of the opposite sex in every way fitted for her companionship. Utmost ease of manner, ready, agreeable conversation, a grace, partly inherent and partly the result of cultivation and constant intercourse with the world—a dark, glowing beauty—he lighted the little sitting room with a brightness it never before had worn. He apparently noticed no want of the luxuries to which he was accustomed, giving of his best to these three ladies in return for their hospitalities. When Lillian went out to give orders for tea, Miss Miller followed, knowing that Don Miguel would desire to ask his cousin many questions, which he could not ask in their presence. The two were alone together nearly an hour. When they were summoned to the tiny supper-room, Inez came out in a blaze of splendor, which caused Lillian to look at her in astonishment. She had never seen her so brilliant, not even before the doctor’s death. Her sallow cheeks were like roses, her whole face sparkled. ‘‘My cousin is so good,’’ she cried. ‘‘He has invited me to go to the city for a fortnight or more. He says he will engage a private parlor for me at the New York Hotel, and I shall go every evening to an opera, or the theatre. It will be perfectly delicious, after this dreary, moping winter! He is going to write to Uncle Juan about me. I expect I shall go back to Havana next spring.’’ ‘‘It will add greatly to Inez’ pleasure, I am sure, if Miss Meredith will consent to accompany her. She requires a more sedate friend to keep her raptures in check. I only dare to ask it in her name; but it would make us both very happy.’’ ‘‘O, thank you. But I am one of that class, who are bound to their necessities. Next Wednesday my school re-opens.’’ ‘‘Your school. Truly, my cousin did tell me that you two young ladies were engaged in earning your own living. But I did not realize. It’s ter298

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rible! Why, I can not yet understand it. All I know is that it must come to an end. My cousin giving lessons, and you, Miss Meredith?’’ The Don did not know the other lady was a teacher by profession, or he would have been less demonstrative in his indignation. Lillian laughed, almost gayly, as she replied: ‘‘That horrifies you, I have no doubt. But, here, we do not think it so frightful. I think work really has been to my benefit. Inez, perhaps, can not say as much. A very little is too much for her.’’ ‘‘Oh, yes! Cousin Miguel, you can not imagine what a slave I have been! —two lessons, twice a week, on the guitar, to the stupid little girls. What would my father have said to that? In Havana we would not do such things. But now I am going to the city with you, and can forget all this sadness. Lily, you can tell the children I will not teach them any more.’’ ‘‘How, after the two weeks pleasuring are over?’’ asked Miss Miller. ‘‘Ah, I suppose—I’m sure I don’t know—but cousin Miguel—’’ ‘‘Will take care of his little girl, hereafter. Certainly, Miss Miller, now that we have found her we shall try to keep her. I shall write at once to my father and mother; and, unless there is something strong enough to hold her here, shall take her back with me when I return, in February. How is it, Inez? are you not homesick for your bowers of orange-flowers and ease?’’ She glanced at him, blushed, and looked down at her plate. ‘‘I shall decide before the end of the fortnight,’’ she answered, attempting to cover her confusion with a laugh. Miss Miller and Lillian both knew that she thought of Arthur. If he was irrevocably lost to her, she would return with her cousin; but it might be that this propitious change in her circumstances, this favoring of titled and wealthy relatives, would draw him back to her. Place her in a worldly position equal to Miss Chateaubriand’s, and she would engage in the rivalry, with spirit. The Don did not particularly notice his cousin’s embarrassment. Familiar as he was with her frivolous nature, he did not anticipate that the widow of a few months had already engaged in another affaire de cœur. The New Year’s day closed more brightly than it began. There is something contagious in the buoyant happiness of a gay and care-free spirit. Don Miguel endeavored to tone himself down to a seriousness which should express his sympathy, yet he could not be otherwise than delightful. Miss Miller, herself, was not oblivious to his powers of pleasing, while Lillian appeared more like her old gay self than she had since her father’s death. He sang the newest songs, accompanying himself on the piano; then he and Inez gave the other old Spanish songs to the guitar. As several neighbors called, during the evening, all Hampton knew, the

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next morning, that a Cuban gentleman had come in quest of the dark-eyed stranger whom the doctor had brought into their midst. His wealth, and the general splendor of his dress and demeanor, were not dwarfed in the describing. Don Miguel might have remained several days, but his cousin was so eager for her holiday excursion that she fairly coaxed him into taking the afternoon train into the city. ‘‘O, Lily,’’ she went on, as the other assisted her in her hurried preparations, ‘‘I am so sorry you can not come along. But I tell you, in confidence, I have planned it all out, so as to change this gloomy school-teaching. You shall marry my cousin! He is handsome and rich, and I know you can easily make him love you for I saw, last evening, how he admired you. I shall praise you to him all the time I am gone, and when I come back, I shall bring him with me,—that is, if I come back at all, which I suppose I shall for a few weeks. Don’t you think him magnificent?’’ ‘‘Yes,’’ said Lillian, ‘‘I think him very agreeable; and he must have a kind heart to indulge you as he does. But his destiny and mine are not cast in the same mould; he is deserving of some one brilliant and world-wise, like himself. He would not think of me,—and then, Inez, it is not our custom, here, to choose a lover so quickly. I do not like to have you say such things. Don’t speak so again to me; and I pray you don’t breathe such a foolish thought to him. It would destroy all my pleasure in his society.’’ ‘‘I promise you I will say nothing then,’’ said Inez, who seldom kept her promises. ‘‘But I know he liked you,—he could not remove his eyes from you. It would be so nice!—I thought of it over an hour, last night. I could visit you in Havana, during the winter, and you could spend your summers at the North with me.’’ ‘‘Hush, Inez, I will not listen. If you do not change the subject I will leave you to do your own packing. But, as to your remaining at the North, is that settled?’’ ‘‘You remember what I told you Christmas Day. If Arthur marries that girl, I suppose I shall have to go home to my uncle. But I do not think to go down to New York for nothing. Ah, I will be revenged yet! I have half a mind to tell Arthur that we have found our box of gold, that you have divided it equally with me, and that you will probably marry my cousin. You will see, if I tell him that, how he will run after us.’’ ‘‘Inez, Inez, how recklessly your tongue runs. If you knew how it hurt me to hear you, you would not talk so. Shall I put your Spanish vail and mantilla in the trunk?’’ ‘‘Yes, I shall wear them to the opera. Lillian, don’t you think I might venture to lay aside my mourning occasionally now? The doctor has been dead more than half a year.’’ 300

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A heavy sigh was her only answer. ‘‘You won’t decide for me. Then I must decide for myself. You know, Lily, caro, there is so much at stake with me—and I look so well, in the evening, in rose-color. Will you lend me that pearl necklace of your mother’s? I suppose, really, it ought to be mine, but, since she gave it to you herself, we will not quarrel about it. I will be very careful of it, and it just makes out my set.’’ Without a word, Lillian went to her room and brought the little casket containing her greatest treasure; she scarcely expected ever to have it returned to her, and she placed it in the trunk with dim eyes. She had loved Inez so much when her father brought her home and asked her to give his wife a place in her heart, she had abandoned herself to all the pleasure of a friendship with one of her own age; but now, day by day, she was being alienated from a person so selfish and exacting, and above all, so untrue to her revered father’s memory. She could but feel, as she tied Inez’ bonnetstrings and kissed her good-bye, that it would be a relief to be free for a time from her complainings and freaks of behavior. ‘‘A good riddance!’’ spoke Miss Miller, with emphasis, as the village hack rolled away from the gate with Don Miguel and his companion. ‘‘If he can endure her exactions for a fortnight, you will have quite a rest, my dear. I wish you were never to see her face again.’’

chapter xiv In Vinculum ‘‘I shall be quite alone when you, too, go away,’’ said Lillian, trying to conceal from her friend the glow which had risen in her cheeks under the young Don’s lingering gaze. ‘‘I wish we could live together always, you and I.’’ ‘‘So do I, my darling. And there is nothing in the world to prevent, except the probability that no sooner would we be cosily settled together, than some envious man would come along and steal you away from me.’’ ‘‘But I should not go, Miss Miller. I shall never marry. I love you better than I ever shall any one who will ask me.’’ ‘‘Nay, I do not place much confidence in such assertions made by an untried girl. It is to be expected that your time will come to love, and marry. I hope it may. In the meantime, if you wish it, and Inez deserts you, I will come back to you. There will be enough for both of us to do, if your

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school grows with the village. We will have a model school,—teach all the possible and impossible accomplishments, be fashionable, and ask a large price. Don’t you think we can manage it?’’ ‘‘My dear friend,’’ replied Lily, clasping her about the neck; ‘‘it is you who are my second mother in heart. O, how I love you!’’ She did not understand why the bosom to which she clung heaved with such force, as if great sobs were strangled within; she did not understand the emotion, but she knew it was there by the tumult of the panting breast, and she drew the pale face down, covering it with kisses, as forgetful of Don Miguel as if his dark eyes had never lingered upon hers. Miss Miller closed her visit with the understanding that when her year’s engagement had expired with the Chateaubriand’s she would return to Hampton and to Lillian. This promise was comfort, almost happiness, to the poor child, whom she left weeping on the threshold of her lonely little home. Ever since her mother’s death Lillian had relied on her governess; to have that faithful friend always to share her cares and enlighten her inexperience, was the best thing she could ask; and, with this hope to brighten the winter, she returned quite cheerfully to her work. It was an absolute relief to have Inez away, since she was probably in good hands and enjoying herself; that the trip was prolonged from a fortnight to three weeks gave Lillian no uneasiness; especially as she received a polite note from Don Miguel, saying that his cousin was too indolent to write, and deputed him to the duty of letting Miss Meredith know that she was well, and so pleased with her visit that she proposed extending it to another week. At the end of that time Inez came home, and Don Miguel with her. ‘‘Inez had led him such a round,’’ he declared, ‘‘that he was tired of dissipation. He came to Hampton to refresh himself with a little quiet,’’— and, taking a room at the village hotel, he endured, without murmuring, such accommodations as were provided for him, spending all his evenings with ‘‘his relatives,’’ taking them out to ride, always, on Saturdays, and grumbling because he could not do it every day. ‘‘That terrible school!’’ he said one day; ‘‘it is a perfect ogre, Cousin Lillian. I could not catch a glimpse of your face, while that rules regnant,— no, not if I were perishing of ennui.’’ ‘‘I am sure you have Inez altogether to yourself. Since she gave up her guitar-lessons, she is enabled to devote herself to you. I think you have nothing to complain of.’’ ‘‘Inez is well enough; she keeps me busy, to say the least; but, between you and me, I like my northern cousin the best.’’ ‘‘Treason—rank treason!’’ laughed Lillian. ‘‘Inez, did you hear that?’’— 302

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a little art of hers to call another into the group, for something in the Don’s voice and look warned her not to prolong a duet with him. ‘‘Never mind, Inez, stay where you are. I was just telling Cousin Lillian that I preferred the northern snow-drop to the southern rose. Only,’’ dropping his voice, ‘‘you are too much of a snow-drop, cousin,—you are ice— frozen to the heart’s core!’’ ‘‘I believe I am,’’ replied Lillian, willing he should think so. ‘‘If I only dared hope that the fervor of southern skies would melt you,’’ he went on, playfully, but with a tremor in his voice under all. Miss Meredith did not hear him; she had drawn aside the curtain and bent to watch the ‘‘resonant steam-eagle’’ (resonant eagle, think of that!) mark ‘‘upon the blasted heaven the measure of her land,’’—or what used to be her land before Meredith Place was sold away from her. The last wreath of vapor had melted in the rosy frost of sunset before she turned again, with a careless remark on an entirely different subject: ‘‘My mind is made up about the school,’’ he continued, determined to advance, now that he had taken the first step. ‘‘It must be dismissed—not for a night, but all time.’’ ‘‘Per contrary,’’ responded his companion, ‘‘Miss Miller’s plans and mine are laid to extend it, improve it, and cause it to flourish like the green bay tree. I see plainly now, that I was created for no other purpose, save to teach the young idea how to shoot.’’ ‘‘I wish they were all shot,’’ muttered Don Miguel. A little silver ring of firmness in her voice warned him to say no more at present; but he was a man with a will, as might be seen by the outline of his thin red lips. Inez had returned from New York in high spirits, which did not lose their buoyancy in a long time. The world was an entirely different world to her since her cousin’s appearance on the scenes. She kept Lillian up and awake half the first night, discoursing upon the excitements of her visit, and displaying the presents her cousin had purchased for her. ‘‘I did buy a few dresses which were not mourning,’’ she said, speaking a little rapidly at first, knowing she introduced an unpleasant subject. ‘‘No one there was acquainted with my circumstances,—those who saw me did not know but I might have laid aside mourning a year ago. I will not wear these things here; at least, not yet, but there I saw no objection; do you? Look! here is the rose-colored silk! I ordered it and had it made within twenty-four hours after reaching New York. I wore it the first time I went to the opera, with my pearls. Miguel provided me with a superb fan and bouquet, and I wore my Spanish mantilla and vail, with white flowers in my hair. Oh, Lily, I was magnificent! I knew that before I left my room;

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but if you had seen the glasses leveled at us all the evening, you would know that I did not flatter myself. Miguel, you see, is very handsome, too, and his foreign air and my foreign dress, made us so conspicuous. I was willing it should be seen we were Spanish,—dark eyes and hair look so well with the vail. Miguel himself told me I was the star of the house. And oh, Lily, do you know, Arthur came in late with the Chateaubriands, and took seats not far from us! When he saw that all the lorgnettes pointed in one direction, he turned and gazed with the rest. He was really pale with surprise. I gave him a very slight, careless bow, which he might share with Miss Chateaubriand, who was staring, too. It was a most delicious evening; the music turned my head, and my blood danced as I felt how colorless and passee that girl looked in comparison with myself. She had on a blue dress, and it was not becoming to her. ‘‘The next day I sent him my card, and Don Miguel’s. He called on us at the hotel; so did the Chateaubriands. She tried to vex me by saying how surprised she had been to see me at the opera, not knowing I was in town. She scarcely recognized me at first, not supposing I would be out of black so soon! Spiteful, wasn’t it? I told her I was not out of mourning, but I had laid it aside for an evening, to please my dear cousin, Don Miguel. You should have seen how agreeable she made herself to him, and how urgently the family invited me to visit them, for even if the elder one is engaged to Arthur, there is Miss Sophie yet to provide for! I was quite willing to reciprocate, for I knew there was not the slightest danger to my cousin from the charms of any one: he had given me to understand that his heart was already taken captive.’’ ‘‘Did Arthur say nothing positive to you during your stay?’’ Lillian asked; ‘‘you certainly ought to know before this, if he has any intention of returning to you.’’ ‘‘He had already committed himself to her, I know that; but he does not love her—he is going to marry her to secure his position in society. But he did love me, and does yet—I can see it in every look; he is ashamed to say so now, for fear I will despise him—but I can see it: it is my revenge to see how he regrets his falsehood. I begged him, last autumn, to be patient about our finding the money, but he was not, and now he is nicely entangled. Bertha Chateaubriand shall never marry him! I can win him away from her yet—and I’m going to do it, out of revenge!’’ ‘‘I should think you would scorn a lover like Arthur Miller too deeply even to seek to triumph over him!’’ ‘‘I don’t scorn him,’’ cried Inez, passionately. ‘‘I know if it were you, you would despise him; but I love him still, and I can’t be cruel to him; it is her I hate! I shall get him away from her yet. They are not to be married until midsummer, and they are coming out the first of May—the Chateau304

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briands are—to Meredith Place again; that will give me all the opportunity I want. I shall try to coax Miguel not to return to Havana in the spring; and I do not think’’—archly—‘‘that he is as anxious about it as he was when he first came.’’ All Inez’ private conversations were in the same strain, until Lillian avoided her company as much as possible during those hours when they were alone. But she could not shake off the torment, and she could not get rid of Don Miguel. Perhaps she did not wish to. Her life was far brighter than in the old desolate days. No heart is so self-sustained as not to feel the pleasure of another’s devotion. There always was a vase of hot-house flowers on her desk—Don Miguel brought them when he came from the city, where he usually visited once or twice a week. Then he always brought fresh music, and they must go over it together. She could not resist or put aside his constant delicate attentions, of which Inez received her share, and which seemed to originate simply in his care for her—of course his other cousin could not be left out of all these. One thing she did refuse, which was, to receive any other gift than flowers, music, or a book. His own sense of propriety induced him to accept her decision, yet it was plainly to be seen how the generous and gallant young Cuban fretted under the restriction. Inez had no modesty about accepting unlimited stores of pretty things; her severest trial was the concession she made to Lillian’s feelings in keeping on black dresses; and every day she feasted her eyes on the treasures she had accumulated for the ‘‘better time coming.’’ Inez, in her somber silks and velvets, moved about in state; but her friend never diverged from the plain garments befitting her income and occupation. In these she appeared more lovely to the fiery-hearted Don than all the fair ladies whose habit it was to display their fine dresses for his admiration. It was so unusual to find so much dignity of character in one so young and beautiful as Lillian, that this moral charm, even more than her fair and exquisite features, fascinated one accustomed to finding women impulsive, selfish, and trifling, after the manner of his own cousin. The feeling grew upon him until it might be noticed he hesitated in expressing opinions which might in any way displease her. ‘‘Lily would make a Puritan of him,’’ Inez said, in her scornful way. It is a fact, that men may jest about, and stand in awe of Puritans like Lillian, but when they have their best and most enduring love to offer, they are apt to lay it upon such spotless shrines.

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chapter xv The Gold Coiner John Milton, M.D., had vanished utterly from the face of the earth; his landlady knew him no more; his few forlorn patients looked up other young doctors, who would attend to their ailments and charge moderate fees. He had concluded to emigrate to the far West, and had taken a through-ticket to Chicago, then the rising city on the outskirts of commercial progress—at least, his landlady was instructed to say so to such as might inquire for him, and this was the answer Miss Miller received when she called at his whilom residence a few days after her return from Hampton. I did go as far as Buffalo, for I did not like the fact, that thus far the governess, at least, had kept track of me—knew my habits and whereabouts, and might be, at most unexpected times, a spy upon my movements. I resolved to escape her father observation, if possible; should I wish to confer with her, of course I could do so at any time—for the present, I desired only opportunities to prosecute my own plans. Thus, when I reached Buffalo, I turned and came back to Hampton, taking care, as usual, to arrive in the night. I now took up what I may call my permanent residence at Meredith Place. The deserted and gloomy old house was my abiding-place; I slept there, and there took the most of my meals—generally, however, stealing over to Gram’me Hooker’s, in the twilight, for the warm supper which she always prepared for me, and carrying back provisions for the next day. That my life was one of real hardship may be comprehended. Gram’me’s cooking was not after the style of Francatelli’s, and the only fire I allowed myself, was a little charcoal in the grate of my chamber. I was obliged to use the utmost caution, and to maintain that ‘‘eternal vigilance’’ which is the price of success. Above all things I desired to prevent rumors of any one haunting the place; for my whole hope was that I might, sometime, surprise the guilty party at his or her work. To one young and active like myself, such a life was dreary enough; but I never once thought of abandoning it, as long as there was any prospect that I might track to his haunt, and catch in the very act, the person engaged in coining my uncle’s gold into money. I had the library as a resource, and I studied the old poets and old scholars with an interest due not so much to my tastes as my idleness; I do not now regret that enforced course of reading, but I would then gladly have exchanged it for the pleasures of liberty and young society. The owner of the place came, once or twice, while I was in the house, to 306

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give it a cursory examination, but he saw nothing to arouse suspicion, and probably would have been incredulous, had he been informed that a tenant was living, rent-free, in the old mansion. Once I was under the bed in my chamber, in considerable fear of a little terrier who was snuffing about the room; the other time, I was driven to the darkest recesses of the cellar; but I escaped detection, and was thankful. I was very careful of Gram’me Hooker, during the January thaw and February cold. I caused her to clothe herself in red flannel and to wear two pairs of stockings when she went out; for I did not forget that she was liable to be laid up with rheumatism, and upon her depended not only my daily food, but all information concerning what transpired in Hampton. I say Hampton, but I mean one little dwelling in that village, around which all my interest centered. The good old creature knew that I wanted to hear her talk of nothing but Lillian, and she gratified me by going over, in minutest detail, all she could glean of what was said and done and rumored. If to gossip was any pleasure to her, she must have passed a cheerful winter, for I did not stint her in the strength of her tea nor the length of her story-telling. The burden of her narrative rang with two names—Lillian and Don Miguel. As much as she loved and commiserated me, I do believe gram’me secretly favored the fine Spanish gentleman. Gay manners, handsome features, and plenty of money, are seductive to all,—my only friend was not proof against their charm, but forgot what I suffered in listening, while she expatiated on his numberless perfections, how popular he was in the village, how all the girls were crazy about him, how fond he was of Inez, and how generous to her,—and, above all, how any one could see with half an eye, that he was perfectly wrapped up in Miss Lillian. ‘‘But does she return his love? Do you know if they are betrothed? Do you know if he has declared himself?’’—I suppose I asked these questions a hundred times. Gram’me was not quite certain; but the child was looking more like herself,—she certainly seemed happier,—and, indeed, it would be a fine thing for Miss Lily. Still, she hardly thought any engagement had taken place, for Miss Lily had told her, more than once, that in June Miss Miller was coming back, and they were going to organize a Young Ladies’ Seminary. ‘‘Lillian is not one to give up her heart at a glance,’’ I said to myself; ‘‘but long before June she will change her mind. God bless my dearest, my darling, in her choice. Even I, who love her, can not but like Don Miguel,— and, surely, her happiness ought to be more precious to me than my own.’’ I have not said much, have I, in this record, of my own personal unhappiness and misfortunes. Loss of character, home, and friends, did not fall upon me without wounding me almost to the death; but, the resolution

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to which I so steadily held, to discover the really guilty, was so powerful as to eclipse all else in my mind. And in this I was not moved so much by the desire to clear myself, as the hope to restore her inheritance to my cousin, or at least to bring punishment on those who had deprived her of her father. Now, Don Miguel became my torture. As I say, I rejoiced that my darling was thus provided for, but for myself I did not rejoice. I suffered the fiercest pangs of jealousy. Without disliking him, or refusing to do him fullest justice,—on the contrary, exaggerating his good qualities—I dwelt on his perfections as devotees kneel on peas. O, happy Don Miguel! Every evening he could bask in the sunshine of my darling’s eyes,—while I was banished to this lonesome darkness. Sometimes, through the intense stillness of my prison, it seemed to me I could hear her rippling laughter, or her voice blending with his in some sweet love-song. I—I could not even look upon her face! Ready as I might be to act the spy upon those I suspected, in the interest of truth and justice, I never took the liberty of stealing to her windows to watch the brightness of her smile which shone for him. I was wild just to look upon her and hear her speak—but I never went near the cottage where she lived. It was strange, the life I led in that old house, so solitary, yet so intense. I could see that my image, reflected from the tall mirrors standing high in their antiquated frames, grew daily more pale and shadowy—daily more like the colors in the brocade curtains and Turkey carpets, which were slowly fading out. How much like a living thing a mirror is! When I go into a deserted mansion they face me like guards, and startle me. I did not dare to cheer myself with a fire in the chimneys; I did not dare to soothe myself with my old violin, which still hung in my chamber; but, cold, silent, and melancholy, flitted about the darkened rooms, beholding myself dimly in those ghostly mirrors, or with locked door and feet to the little charcoal brasier, hung languidly over my books, waiting for night to come, that I might gossip with gram’me about Lillian—waiting for night to come, that I might resume my wearing and ceaseless vigil. Unhappy love and gnawing suspense were telling fearfully upon my youth and health. I was becoming nervous, from want of proper sleep, and from the habit of being everlastingly on the watch, with ear intent to catch every sound, by day or night. My eyes acquired a wild, bright look, almost like that of insanity; my complexion was bleached like that of a plant growing in a cellar; my clothes were shabby and hung upon my shrinking limbs; my hair grew in thick masses of curls down my neck. I suppose if I had confronted all Hampton in the open day, scarcely two persons would have recognized me, and if any had surprised me in my retreat they would have been more alarmed than I. 308

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‘‘What a dangerous rival I should prove to Don Miguel de Almeda, if I were to present myself, now, to my cousin!’’ I would say to myself, in mockery. Sometimes I thought that my endurance might fail me utterly before the hour of triumph came; I might grow too ill to take care of myself, when, unless I could be sheltered at gram’me’s, I should be detected, and all results of my long labors would be lost. This fear made me as careful of myself as circumstances would permit. It was about the middle of March that an event occurred which partially rewarded my ten weeks of unceasing watchfulness. I had been driven to the conclusion that the robber must have disposed of the whole sixty thousand dollars worth of bullion before I made the discovery of the crucible, and that I had wasted time in this idle waiting; and had resolved to leave the spot before the first of April if nothing transpired. If the Chateaubriands were coming out on the first of May, I foresaw that the month of April would be given over to repairs and house-cleaning, so that my time was necessarily short. I had resigned expectation of any result of my vigils, and was in that despondent mood which amounts to indifference, when, making my way to Gram’me Hooker’s, through a drizzling rain, one Friday evening, she told me that she had been at Lillian’s that morning, who had spoken to her of receiving a letter from Miss Miller, announcing that she would arrive that afternoon to spend Sabbath with her, and that her brother Arthur would accompany her. ‘‘She’s as strange a creature as ever I saw,’’ muttered gram’me, when she had bolted the door, and pulled down the green paper blind, preparatory to placing my supper of fried pork and roasted potatoes on the table before me. ‘‘Who is strange? Miss Miller?’’ ‘‘No, no, t’other one.’’ ‘‘I don’t know who you speak of, gram’me.’’ She placed the dishes before me, and poured out my tea; as she handed me the cup, she said, a little impatiently: ‘‘Why, that Spanish woman, of course. What under the sun an’ airth Dr. Meredith ever married her for, beats me. He might know her ways wouldn’t be like ours. But, men of his age allers makes fools of themselves in their second choice; and the more they knows, and the more bookl’arned they be, the greater simpletons!’’ ‘‘What set you to thinking of that, just now?’’ ‘‘She was by when Miss Lily mentioned that Mr. Miller was comin’ along. You oughter have seen her cheeks redden up an’ her eyes blaze! The minute before, she looked as saller and pale as a bowl of cream, and all of a sudden she colored up like a rose. I don’t deny she’s as handsome as a

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picter when she’s pleased or flattered—an’, my, how she does dress! To be sure, she wears black, but it’s velvet and all kind of rich things, an’ she lays back on the sofa an’ flirts her fan or tinkles her guitar, while poor Miss Lily is just fagged out with teaching and keeping house and all.’’ ‘‘Do you think it is injuring Lillian, gram’me?’’ ‘‘Wall, I jest do, to say truth. If she had her hull strength I don’t know as ’twould, but she was too young to be very strong, you see; she hadn’t settled arter gettin’ her growth.’’ ‘‘Oh, gramme! But then Don Miguel will soon put an end to that! Yes, he will take care of her!’’ ‘‘I think he will,’’ was the dry reply, and I swallowed my hot potato as if it were so much ashes. ‘‘Yes, I never did see a young man more completely bound up in a girl. He’s like her shadder. I shouldn’t be surprised if a weddin’ was to take place as soon as the season of mournin’ had ended. Not before—no; Miss Lily wouldn’t permit that.’’ I pushed away my plate and cup. ‘‘Have another tater, Dr. Joe? I do believe you’re gettin’ tired of ’em. I wish I had suthin’ better to offer you. You’re drefful thin and holler-eyed, Doctor Joe. You’ll kill yourself, if you don’t quit mopin’ round that old place and settin’ up nights so much. I wish you’d go to Wisconsin, where my boy is. He says he’s fatted up wonderful, and ’ll send fur me this summer. Couldn’t you go along? Ain’t much sickness there; but there ain’t no doctor either, and you’ll have the first chance.’’ ‘‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised if I went with you, gram’me.’’ ‘‘Dear me! how tickled I shall be! You’ll forget your troubles there, and feel like another person. I make no doubt you’ll grow rich and be a great man.’’ ‘‘Thank you, gram’me, for the prophecy.’’ ‘‘That brings me back to that Spanish woman ag’in, said gram’me, settling her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, and staring hard into the fire. ‘‘What does?’’ ‘‘Speakin’ of prophesying and sich like witchcraft. I’m goin’ to tell you what she did to-day, Doctor Joe. She put on her bonnet when I came away, and said she was going to walk with me as far as the woods, to see if she couldn’t find some wild violets. It was threatenin’ to rain, then, and I was rather surprised at her goin’, for she don’t trouble to be very polite to an old body like me; but she walked along by my side, very friendly, till we come to the woods, and then she pulled a few violets, and asked me, with a very red face, if I was wise about plants and medicines and sich things. I told her I knew the use of harbs pretty well, and could stew up a mess that was good for liver complaint; likewise, I could cure a sore throat and 310

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the bite of a copperhead. Then she asked me if I ever made love-philters. ‘What,’ said I, ‘do you believe in that stuff?’ ‘Yes,’ said she, ‘all the young girls where I come from use love-philters. Sometimes they pay a large price for them. Come, gram’me,’ she said, very coaxing and soft, ‘I believe you know how to fix ’em. I want one of the most powerful kind, and I will come an’ git it in the mornin’, and she took a gold piece out of her pocket and slipped it in my hand. ‘‘ ‘Then you must tell me what you want it for, and who, or I can’t make the charm work,’ I said, not because I wanted the money, Doctor Joe, but jest to see what was in that girl’s head. ‘I didn’t know we had to tell who,’ she said, kinder sot back. ‘Oh, no matter, then, but I’ll guess. It’s the young gentleman that’s comin’ here to-morrow with his sister, ain’t it?’ She whispered ‘yes,’ and then I asked her what particular charm she wanted the philter to have, and she said she wanted one as would make a false heart true; as would win a lover back, whom a handsome girl had stolen away from her. ‘‘Fool—little idiot!’’ I muttered, in contempt; ‘‘can she really be so silly, gram’me?’’ ‘‘She was in dead ’arnest, Doctor Joe. And now I want you to give me a little powder, that’ll do no harm. You can get some out o’ the doctor’s office, can’t you? an’ I’ll go over to the house with you, when you go back, and bring it, so’s to have it ready in the mornin’.’’

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‘‘I don’t wish to have anything to do with such ridiculous folly.’’ ‘‘Indeed, it ain’t the money. I shan’t take much from her; but I’ve a curiosity to see how that woman will carry on.’’ ‘‘There may be something in that,’’ I answered, after a little reflection. ‘‘A girl so artful and so ignorant might become dangerous—’’ here I paused, for I was choked by the sudden leaping of my heart into my throat at a thought—‘‘might become,’’ perhaps had been dangerous! Doubtless this Cuban compound of jealousy, passion, art, and ignorance, had played similar tricks before. It might be—but no; the idea was not credible. ‘‘Here’s a scrap of paper she took out of her purse with the money,—it fell on the ground, but she didn’t see it, an’ I picked it up. As near as I can make out, it shows she’s on the look-out for magicians and sorcerers.’’ The old woman laughed heartily as she handed me the paper—a few lines cut from a New York daily, reading something after this fashion: ‘‘Astonishing! The Turkish Charm of Eden, warranted to fascinate, and never fail. Also, Love Secrets, Beautiful Arts, etc. Try it. Send 25 cents, and receive by return mail, etc.’’

‘‘I knew she was superstitious and narrow-minded, but I did not suppose her given over to anything so absurd. Well, gram’me, we will exercise all the might of our intellect and power of our education in concocting a philter which shall win the false knight from the little feet of Miss Chateaubriand back to the soft chain of the lady’s guitar-ribbon, which he shall wear, henceforth, about his neck forevermore. I must go back now. I feel as if something were going to happen. I shall begin, presently, to believe in fore-warnings as well as love-philters. ‘Fetch me that flower—the herb I showed thee once; The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid, Will make a man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees. Fetch me this herb: and be thou here again Ere the leviathan can swim a league.’

We must find this ‘little western flower’ for our fair Inez.’’ ‘‘What’s that I’m to fetch, Doctor Joe?’’ ‘‘Nothing, gram’me. I was only quoting from a play I was reading today,’’ and I drew on my overcoat. ‘‘There is a certain little flower,—but, not purple—I would like to squeeze the juice from, for this dainty lover. They don’t call it ‘love-in-idleness,’ but lobelia, gram’me. What do you say to a dose of that?’’ She laughed till her sides shook. 312

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‘‘I’ll warrant it would do him lots of good,—’specially if he’s threatened with fever,—love fever or bilious, it don’t matter which.’’ Rather coarse jesting; but the best to be had under the circumstances, and a good laugh might be the salvation of me, my nerves had been so long strung to the highest. I did laugh at the idea of lobelia for a false lover; but I was half in earnest, too, my dislike of Arthur Miller increasing the temptation. ‘‘However, gram’me, I shall be prudent, and put up nothing which will betray the foolish girl’s more foolish arts. It is too wet for you to go out tonight. Stay you at home, and I will place the powders between the shutters of the kitchen window; you can get them, as you go by, in the morning. Good night.’’ I stepped out into the darkness from the cheerful little room; the rain pattered on the dead leaves over which I walked; the air was close, but balmy with the damp breath of the woods; not a star shone, but I was too familiar with the oft-trodden path to be at a loss; I knew when I came to the brook and when to the broken fence. An overpowering melancholy took possession of me, as I slowly glided forward in the musical darkness, so intense that it wrapped me about like a garment. No longer upheld by the hope which had so long supported me, life was objectless. Why not lie down on the dead leaves and perish like them, since I had dropped from home and love like the leaf from its branch? It appeared to my sense, that, if I would lie down and let the warm rain fall on me all night, in the morning I should be oblivious to all which now troubled me—dead—and at rest. I resisted the temptation, pushed on wearily, found the gate, the garden, the unfastened door, which I opened and closed with the noiseless movement that had become habitual with me, and glided up to my room. I had decided not to look for the material for those silly ‘‘powders’’ in the evening, as I should have to strike a light, which I did not care to do. The fact that Miss Miller had probably arrived in Hampton was enough to renew all my old caution. Taking off my damp clothing, I bolted my door, crept into bed, and sank into deep slumber. It was not usual for me to sleep before midnight, but this evening the droning of the rain acted on my restlessness like an opiate. I must have slept several hours, when I suddenly awoke, with every faculty on the alert. I do not know what aroused me so completely; I raised myself silently in the bed, and listened. I was certain I heard retreating footsteps, very light, as if the person was walking in stockings. It might have been only the patter of a mouse—I was not positive; many a time I had been falsely alarmed; I did as I had previously done an hundred times, slipped out upon the floor and dressed myself. I waited fifteen or twenty

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minutes. I might have returned to my slumbers thinking I had deceived myself, but a door slammed, as if a current of outside air had driven it shut. It sounded like thunder in the empty, silent house, echoing through every hall and corridor. I can not describe how it affected me—who had waited so long. For a few moments I trembled; then grew calm and perfectly selfcontrolled. Probably the intruder was alarmed at the noise himself had made. I would wait a little until his assurance was restored; yet not long, for I was afraid he might be going away. I slipped the bolt of my door without making the least noise, opened it a little—all dark, all still. I passed on to the stairway, down it; still, all was rayless darkness. I glided through the parlors, listened at the library door—not a sound! On to the laboratory. The door had stood open when I left to go to my tea; now it was closed! I stooped to look through the keyhole, but it must have been stuffed, for not a beam of light was visible. I longed to try the knob, to find if the door was fastened on the inside, but hardly thought it prudent until I had further investigated. I heard movements within—the clinking sound of metal—and the soft roar of the current of air which was being forced into the furnace to bring the fire to an intense heat. I suppose I was terribly excited, but I did not realize it so much until the reaction came. Making my way to the back hall-door, which I found unfastened, I went out to the window which belonged to the laboratory, and cautiously unclosed the slats a little way. I found I need not be so careful, for a newspaper had been pinned up inside, which effectually prevented my looking into the room; but the dull red glow of the furnace shone inside, and I could faintly discern a shadow on the opposite wall, stooping and rising, as the person at the furnace stooped and rose. What should I do? All winter long I had waited for the hour, and now that it was upon me I could not decide what step to take! If I should go to the village and arouse the sheriff, and bring him here, all might be over before our return, when I should have exposed myself to arrest, given warning to the thief, and accomplished nothing! He might have been at work hours before I knew it, and be nearly through with his night’s labor. If there was one person only, better for me to wait until he attempted his exit, and then throttle him; or dog his steps, and ascertain from whence he procured the secreted gold. If I once ascertained who the person was, I could more easily arrange matters for his detection and arrest. As there was no conversation. I made sure that only one was engaged in the work. I felt a senseless anger at the paper, which alone interposed between me and a sight of the operator at his toils. If that were away, I might watch him at my leisure! 314

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O! now if I had Lillian with me, how pure as the daylight could I be made in her eyes! I even wished that I had brought Gram’me Hooker with me to act as witness. I need not say that in my mind a connection arose between the visit of the Millers to Hampton and this midnight adventure at Meredith Place. It was still raining lightly and softly, and I was glad of it, as the murmur served to hide any faint noise of footsteps or breathing which I might make. After some hesitation, I went back, armed with a heavy cudgel with which I had previously provided myself, and took up my station by the laboratory door. The darkness was absolute; all my senses were concentrated in the one of hearing; I could make out the whole process of the work inside. More than an hour passed. Did you ever feel the approach of an object in the dark? Standing here, I fancied some one crept down the hall, though I heard nothing; paused, as I had paused; was listening, as I was listening— stood at the opposite side of the doorway. I was tempted to stretch out my hand and grasp, to see if some one were really there; but even the singular fact of another person being on the watch, if fact it were, was second to the necessity of discovering the robber within—to whom any noise might give the alarm. Yes, I heard breathing, repressed, and consequently, hurried. I softly reached forward my hand, but it touched nothing; and again I felt, as I had once before, as if some soul were here without its body. There was something awful about the silence and the waiting. All things must have an end,—my vigil had. I noted the clearing up and the putting in order which was going on in the laboratory; then some one came to the door, cautiously turned the key, opened the door. There was no light, for lamp and furnace-fire had been extinguished. I raised my weapon, and brought it down heavily; there was a cry—a fall—some one uttered a shriek and stumbled! Was there more than one? I thought not, and resolved that this one should not escape me. I stooped to the fallen figure, and closed my vise-like arms about it. Good God! it was a woman’s. I dragged her into the laboratory, shut and locked the door, and relighted the lamp which I knew stood on the table. I hesitated before turning the light of the lamp on the woman, for two reasons: I was afraid I had killed her, and I dreaded, after all, to convince myself of who it was. It was Miss Miller!

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chapter xvi Broken and Mended I saw that she was dead or unconscious, and catching the lamp, I ran out to find if she had any confederates lurking about. The more I thought of it, the more it seemed to me as if two persons had cried out at the moment I struck; but I found no one in the house, or about the porches. I immediately fastened the back hall door, which, as I said, had been unlocked when I first came down, and then searched every room, even to the cellar. No one was in the house save us two, and I made sure that no one could get in. As I came back to the laboratory, close by the door lay a small bag, which I must have passed over without notice as I went out. I knew what was in it before I examined it,—it was heavy with the newly-coined gold. Taking it with me into the room, I now gave my attention to the woman, who lay on the floor, prostrated by my own hand. She had on a hood and a waterproof cloak, both drenched with rain. As I took off the hood, the heavy waves of her jet-black hair rolled down either side of the marble face— a face so pale that I felt, hurriedly, for the faint pulse at her wrist, which assured me that she was alive. I shrank as I touched her wrist. Helpless and wounded as she lay before me, all my old dislike sprang up anew at thought of the consummate acting of which she had been guilty—of the heartless, bold, and wicked character which could execute the scheme of wrong and robbery, while pretending to be Lillian’s best friend. However, the first impulse of a physician is to save life. I could not let her die before me; no, rather bring her back to the punishment which must await her. I had been her assailant, now I must be her surgeon. I was glad to find that the tremendous blow which I had dealt had not fallen on her head; there was a blood stain on her cheek where she had cut it in falling; but my weapon had struck her shoulder and arm, and the latter was broken midway between the shoulder and elbow. She moaned as I handled the injured limb. Going to the laundry, I procured cold water; then I fastened myself and my patient in the laboratory, which,—having always served Dr. Meredith as a sort of office and drug-shop combined, for the benefit of poor country people—was still supplied with everything needful. Cold water on her forehead, and a spoon-full of brandy between her lips, soon caused Miss Miller to open her eyes and stare at me silently. ‘‘I have broken your arm, and I’m going to set it,’’ I said, as I cut the sleeve from it with my knife. 316

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‘‘Thank you,’’ she answered, in a voice as cold and firm as my own, though not, perhaps, as strong. It was a beautiful arm, perfect in its proportions, with flesh firm and smooth as flesh could be, except where the ugly bruise was already beginning to swell and discolor. I could not handle it as I would have handled a man’s arm, greatly as I disliked its owner; I thought once or twice my nerves would fail me; but her own firmness aided me to bring my task to a successful end. She never groaned while I forced the bones into place and applied the splints; but when I turned to give her some water, at the close, she had slipped off again into insensibility. More brandy;—then I went for pillows and a mattress, which I spread on the floor, adjusting her as comfortably as possible, with plenty of cold water bandages on her shoulder and arm; but no sooner had she entirely recovered consciousness than she sat up, saying— ‘‘I must go back now, before it grows light.’’ ‘‘No, Miss Miller, you are my prisoner.’’ ‘‘Let me go back to Lillian before the day breaks. You can not wish to get up such a scene at Meredith Place as will follow our being found here.’’ ‘‘Do you think yourself in condition to walk a mile?’’ ‘‘Yes, yes! you need not doubt that. My arm pains me a little, but I am strong as ever.’’

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Her face was like the linen it rested on, and her pulse already rising. I regarded her with something like compassion. ‘‘You could not do it, Miss Miller.’’ ‘‘I must. There is so much at stake.’’ Rising to her feet, she staggered to the door, but found it locked, and the key in my possession; she sank into a chair beside it, looking so strange in her disheveled dress, with her bandaged arm and white face— ‘‘You were always my enemy, Joseph. Oh, do be merciful now, and let me go away from this before the day breaks.’’ For answer, I turned out on the table the hundred gold eagles, scarcely hardened from the mould—glittering witnesses, telling of guilt and shame. ‘‘Dr. Meredith’s gold—Lillian’s inheritance.’’ I thought to speak sternly, but my voice was hollow and trembling with emotion,—two burning tears ran down my thin cheeks at sight of this reminder of all that had occurred. ‘‘Poor boy,’’ she murmured pitifully; ‘‘poor Lillian! I am so sorry for all—and for myself. If I knew what was right for me to do, I would do it.’’ ‘‘You can not restore the dead to life; you can not—’’ ‘‘Ah! don’t! don’t!’’ ‘‘You can not restore the money already squandered, perhaps; but you can give over what remains, to the rightful owners. You can cease to furnish your brother with means to keep up appearances which his own fortune does not warrant, while she whom you pretend to love and befriend suffers all the hardships of poverty. Because you did not succeed in obtaining the lead in Dr. Meredith’s family, you have turned your ambition, I suppose, in the direction of the Chateaubriands. Your brother’s alliance with that family will be a great honor, will it not? It does seem cruel to nip this fair prospect in the bud!’’ ‘‘You have not the power to blast us,’’ she defiantly returned. ‘‘Am I in your power? No!—we two are here, each to witness against the other. Whose word will be most readily received? Have you thought of that? You swear you found me here engaged in coining money. I swear that I came here because I had reason to know that you were haunting this house, and had been all winter secreted here. I came and found you at your task of melting your uncle’s gold into coin, and when you discovered that I was on your track you struck me down, probably with intent to kill me, and put the inconvenient witness out of the way. Whose story will be most easily believed? My path has been straightforward since the day of the doctor’s death, in the broad daylight, so that all might see it; yours has been covered by all manner of deceits and secrecies. Your course, from first to last, is enough to condemn and convict you, a dozen times over. 318

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Don Miguel will swear that you had the key to your uncle’s treasure-box, while practicing your profession under an assumed name. Come! let us compromise.’’ ‘‘Never! I can die in a good cause. But I will not permit you longer to impose on my cousin Lillian your false friendship, as far as words of mine have power to warn her.’’ ‘‘Your words will have no power against me. You forget the light in which she views you. She would sooner listen to the hissing of a viper than to your voice, whom she regards as her father’s murderer!’’ ‘‘You told me that she never believed me guilty!’’ I cried, stung by her cruel words the more deeply that I felt them true. She laughed,—you know how maddening a laugh can be, how much harder to bear than any sarcasm or angry epithet! I felt the impulse to punish her in some frightful way, but she had overtasked her strength, and again grew faint. I could not strike a helpless woman—so I brought the camphor instead of the cudgel; but she was obliged to lie down, and give up, for the present, the hope of going home. ‘‘Is it growing light?’’ she asked, after a short time. I took down the newspaper and looked through the slats of the shutters; the rain had ceased, a rosy streak lay along the horizon, the black mist in the garden began to lighten into gray. By some chance, I bethought me to look at the date of the paper—it was an evening New York daily of the previous day! I seated myself at the table with pen, ink, and paper. Miss Miller lay quite still, watching me. Suddenly she asked: ‘‘May I look at that bag?’’ She referred to the one which had held the money. Her question caused me to take it up and examine it. It was of brown linen, more like a lady’s reticule than the canvas-bags which are made for coin; and in the top, just under the hem, was worked in red letters, A. M. It was soiled, and wore the print of money, plainly showing that this was not the first time it had served the purpose. ‘‘You can not look at the bag. I have taken possession of it.’’ ‘‘Who are you writing to—the sheriff?’’ I made no answer, but went on with my writing by the dimly burning lamp, feeling those black eyes fixed on me with no loving glance. Presently I was interrupted with— ‘‘I meant to tell you, since you really feel so badly about your cousin’s loss of fortune, that you hardly need bear such an onerous burden of care any longer. She will soon marry Don Miguel, who is able to replace what she lost, five times over.’’

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Perhaps she saw the blot made on my letter; if so, doubtless it gave her a malicious pleasure in the midst of her pain. The dawn was beginning to overpower the waning lamp-light as I finished and folded the sheet on which I had written. It read: Lillian: I told you, when I deserted name and fame, that it was in order to keep free to work for you. Probably you did not believe me;—I scarcely hoped you would. Since then I have never ceased to wait and watch. Tonight my investigations have culminated in the arrest of the person who has made use of her knowledge of these premises, as well as her chemical knowledge, and familiarity with the laboratory, to coin the bullion which was in the missing box, into money. Whether the same person prepared the fatal draught which deprived you of your father, I have not positively discovered. You must draw your own inferences. She is familiar, as you know, with the nature and uses of poisons. I came here at Christmas and found gold in a crucible. Since then I have kept watch for the coiner. To-night I heard her at the work, surprised her as she came from the laboratory, and struck her down, in the darkness, unknowing who it was. Had I guessed that the offender was a woman, I should have been less savage in my assault. She laughs now, and declares that the cards are still in her own hands. She will assert that I am the guilty one, and that she discovered me. I quite expect that you will give her statement the preference. All the proof I can offer in my own favor, is this paper, and this bag, which held the money. Perhaps you will recognize the bag as hers;—the paper was pinned up at the window. You can see that it came from the city yesterday afternoon, and Gram’me Hooker will tell you that I have not left this vicinity for over ten weeks. I believe, too, that I will send this handkerchief. I picked it up in this room, on the afternoon of my uncle’s death. It lay upon the floor, under the shelf containing poisons. You will observe that it has two holes eaten in it by a drop of acid. I did not show it to you, while I remained in the family, for I did not like to shock you, and I had then no other proof. Now, I know it to be my solemn duty to warn you against one in whom you repose every confidence. I leave the whole matter in your hands. You can keep it secret, or expose it to those who will assist you in compelling her to divulge where the remainder of your father’s fortune is. You can believe me, or weakly submit to be farther deceived by one who has preyed upon you without mercy. I hope that the larger part of your inheritance will be restored to you;—also, that you will be happy, and prosperous, as I hear there is every prospect of your being. Having done all that I could for the restoration of the gold, I leave it to you to command it. There is nothing more for me to do, in your service, and so, farewell. J. M.

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A formal epistle, meet for the eye of Don Miguel’s betrothed. I had scarcely any hope that Miss Miller would fail to smooth the whole affair over to Lillian. I regretted, angrily, that I had failed to secure a witness, which had left me, still, so much at her mercy. I would have given much if Gram’me Hooker had been there, through the curious proceedings of that night, to bear her testimony. To remain longer in Meredith Place would be unnecessary, for, of course, the coining would never be repeated; and I suspected that the box of gold would be delivered to my cousin, either openly or surreptitiously. However, I determined to make one more effort to render the matter certain. I turned down the lamp, flung open the shutter, and, as the gray morning light fell on the pallid face, I said, abruptly— ‘‘You knew, then, from the beginning, the mystery of the figure eight?’’ ‘‘Before God, I do not, Joseph Meredith!’’ ‘‘Tell me where the box is.’’ ‘‘I do not know.’’ ‘‘Where did you get the gold?’’ ‘‘Why should I tell you? You have no right to it.’’ ‘‘If I promise to keep the matter perfectly quiet, to conceal it, even from Lillian, allowing you to make such excuse as you choose for your broken arm, will you tell me where the box is?’’ ‘‘I told you that I do not know. I have looked for it, as earnestly as you, and have never found it.’’ I turned away in disgust; why could she not content herself with simply denying my request, without adding this falsehood to it? ‘‘Good bye forever,’’ I said, turning a last contemptuous look on the governess, as she lay there, helpless. I could not but admire, even then, the haughtiness, the dignity, which never deserted her. ‘‘She would die on the scaffold, like a queen going to be crowned,’’ I muttered, as I turned the key, and locked her in. I had previously folded a few squares of white paper containing some harmless powders of bi-carbonate of soda and powdered sugar,—with these, the newspaper, letter, handkerchief, and linen bag, I departed from Meredith Place; the gold I left lying on the table, as I had turned it out. Walking rapidly to Mrs. Hooker’s, I found her preparing breakfast. ‘‘Give me a good, strong cup of coffee, gram’me. I am about to set forth on the journey of life to-day, and I shall need that to sustain me.’’ ‘‘What do you mean, Doctor Joe? Be you ral’y goin’?’’ ‘‘Yes, quickly, and, I think, forever. Perhaps I shall turn up in Minnesota before long, and then you will hear from me through your son,’’ I added, as she began to cry.

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‘‘If you must go, do go there,’’ she urged, and I thought favorably of it myself; though my first anxiety was to get out of Hampton as speedily as possible. ‘‘And now, dear, good, kind gram’me, good-bye,’’ I said, as, having drank my coffee, put a crust of bread in my pocket, and made up my small bundle of linen and placed it in my traveling-bag, I started on this new journey. ‘‘If the world was a desert island, and I a Robinson Crusoe, just wrecked, I should not feel half so desolate. Remember, take this package immediately, and deliver it into my cousin’s own hands. Be certain that she has it within an hour. Give it to her yourself. Do not allow any one else to act as messenger. Here are the love-philters, too, for Inez. Don’t disappoint her! If Arthur Miller only remains over Sunday, they will have to do their work of fascination speedily! Again, farewell, and God bless you!’’

chapter xvii The Tower Chamber The retired village of Hampton was changed, in a season, into a fashionable resort. The Chateaubriands had so faithfully praised it to their friends during the winter, saying always to those who wondered ‘‘where they should go next summer,’’ to ‘‘do as they expected to do, go to Hampton,’’ that when May came, all the quiet old farmers were beseiged with applications for board, and what few houses were to be had, were rented to such ‘‘high-flyers’’ as had never before graced these modest dwellings. The one hotel-keeper, seeing that this was ‘‘the tide, which, taken at its flood, leads on to fortune,’’ repaired the large, rambling shell which went by the name of Hampton House, re-papered, re-whitewashed, refurnished, sent to the city for a cook who could fry potatoes à la Mountain House, laid in stores of young chickens and fresh eggs, hired half-grown boys to rifle the trout-streams, and set himself up in a flourishing business with summer boarders. There were young men, now, to keep Don Miguel company in fishing, hunting, and driving; for the Spanish gentleman had not yet returned to Havana. He was waiting the pleasure of his cousin, he said, who had not decided whether she preferred the North or the South. As for Inez, she hardly thought it prudent to return to Cuba in the hot season, now that she had become, in a measure, acclimated here. Even if she had had no deeper reason for desiring to remain in Hampton, the prospect of gayety was enough to bewitch her; her cousin was 322

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so popular and so admired, that the overflow of the attention he received quite deluged her and Lillian. And, indeed, with some one to dress her, indulge her, wait upon her, and ‘‘bring out her good points,’’ she would have been a belle anywhere. The fact of her having been the bride of a few weeks and the widow of a few months, only added to the interest felt in the beautiful Cuban, the dark splendor of whose eyes was supposed to borrow its deepest charm from the pensive fall of eye-lashes which knew well when to droop. Doubtless, it would have put the finishing-touch to her attractions, if it could have been announced that the mystery of Meredith Place had been solved by a discovery of the missing gold; Don Miguel, who was as worldly-wise as he was polite and fascinating, smiling in his sleeve when certain elegant youths, who hardly knew how to pay their board-bills, endeavored to draw from him, in confidence, how much of a settlement he intended to bestow on his favorite cousin. The Chateaubriands were the leaders in all in-door gayeties, as Don Miguel was in all outdoor excursions. The young ladies commanded almost as many followers as they could have done at Saratoga, which, in these days, was the watering-place; and, for once, Miss Sophie, the younger, had her full share of attention, for it was, by this time, pretty well understood that the elder was affianced to the young broker and lawyer who came out every Saturday from the city, and remained until Monday morning. Yes, Bertha Chateaubriand, in the midst of picnics, rides, drives, and evening reunions, had to take time to prepare her trousseau, as her wedding-day was set for the 20th of July, after which a six-weeks bridal tour was to follow. Her parents had consented to her marrying Mr. Miller, seeing that she obstinately declared her purpose to do so, with or without their consent; but they were far from satisfied with the alliance. They had expected their eldest and handsomest daughter would make a more brilliant match— some foreign diplomat, or leading politician among our own distinguished men, being the least to which they had aspired, Mr. Chateaubriand having quite intimate relations with great people in public life, and being more ambitious for power than money. It was a disappointment of very annoying character to find that Bertha preferred this unknown lawyer, whose sister actually earned her own living; but, the family had been wealthy in Miss Miller’s younger days; they liked her, and Arthur evidently was acquiring money—he appeared well at a dinner-party, or in the waltz— would sometime be a wealthy old broker, as his expected father-in-law was before him, and with this they were obliged to be content. Having once yielded, they had the good sense to refrain from irritating Miss Bertha with complaints or sarcasms, and furnished money for the trousseau al-

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most as liberally as if her fiancee had been a member of the French Legation, or a German count. It might be thought that Arthur Miller would have preferred the Chateaubriands to have taken almost any other than Meredith Place, where he had once desperately flirted with Inez, if not with Lillian also, and where he would have to meet, continually, the fiery and jealous gaze of the Cuban. But, for reasons of his own, he was well satisfied. Everything went merry as a marriage-bell. Inez had plenty of cavaliers, and, if she cherished resentment or revenge, she hid it, for the present, deep in her heart. She and Sophie Chateaubriand grew to be great friends, and were together almost daily and hourly. According to Sophie, Inez was one of the most childish, artless, and exquisitely delightful beings that ever lived—a little pettish and exacting, flying in a passion to get over it in a minute: but even this high temper was one of her charms—she indulged it in such an open, infantile way. Sophie bore it with the utmost sang froid, when Bertha, whose choice was already made, remarked, pungently, that it was plain the lady was only a faint reflection of the perfections of her cousin, Don Miguel de Almeda. ‘‘I don’t deny it,’’ laughed Sophie, going to the great mirror of the boudoir where they sat—the little east chamber which had once been Lillian’s —and drawing her pale, flaxen ringlets through her fingers out to their full length, while she studied the contour of her slender figure, the poise of her head, the turn of her nose, and the shade of color in her blue eyes—‘‘that if I were as handsome as you, Bertha, I should make a tremendous effort to conquer the Don. You must acknowledge he’s far superior to Arthur. Wouldn’t mamma’s eyes dance, if I could bring that splendid cavalier to her feet as a suitor for her second daughter’s hand!’’ ‘‘Why don’t you set yourself seriously to the work, then?’’ queried Bertha. ‘‘Papa would be pleased to have a live Don in the family. He has never been fully Americanized—papa has not. The noble blood of his French father still runs in his veins too freely to allow of his being a good republican. Catch the Don, Sophie, and make him happy for life.’’ ‘‘Who?—the Don, or papa?’’ ‘‘Both, if you can. Why not? Don Miguel is remarkably good-tempered, for a Spaniard. If I had not been already promised to my dear Arthur, I’m not certain what the effect would have been upon me, of his magnificent manners, dress, and all that. Dazzling, I dare say!’’ ‘‘It’s fortunate I’m not so impressible, since the current report in Hampton is, that he is a perfect slave to Lillian Meredith. I’m not beautiful enough to engage in a rivalry with her.’’ ‘‘Nonsense! You’ve grown very modest all at once. Your style is the same as hers—a blonde, blue eyes, light hair, rosy cheeks; and certainly you have 324

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every advantage of dress, air, and manner, as well as your father’s position in society.’’ ‘‘Advantage of dress I acknowledge, and of family—that is, of money, for I believe Dr. Meredith was a gentleman, and a man of talent; for the rest, I give up, without competing. I’ve tried to find fault with her, and I can not, and what more can a rival say than that? However, don’t think I utterly despair. Inez confides to me that Lillian has refused Don Miguel— would you believe it? She tells him that her spirits are so broken by the tragedy of her father’s death, that she would not be such a wife as he deserves—that she can not even think of love, as yet; that she never expects to marry! Did you ever? Throws away this brilliant opportunity—probably her only one—and clings to that tiresome little school! I hardly know what to make of her!—though I’m much obliged to her, I’m sure, for refusing the Don. It seems he is not greatly discouraged by her coyness, as he persists in waiting until she has changed her mind.’’ ‘‘In the meantime, do your best, my love, to make him change his mind. It would be such a balm to the wound I have inflicted on the family pride!’’ And the beauty went on with her interesting task of basting a piece of yellow Chateaubriand lace around the neck of a salmon-colored satin evening dress, whose tint was scarcely deeper than that of the lace. Sophie turned from the mirror, and threw herself indolently into her favorite seat—the low and deep embrasure of the window, close beside which, on the outside, rose the tower which gave to Meredith Place its distinguishing feature of dignity. The house was one of those to which such an adjunct was not inappropriate, being built of solid blocks of smooth gray stone, and the tower rising out of its eastern and northern angle, clothed from head to foot with the glorious old Irish ivy, whose dark green leaves glistened in the June sunlight. A joy forever that ivy had been in the eyes of Lillian, from her babyhood up, and her wistful gaze turned often towards it now in the days of her exile. Perhaps Sophie felt some of the weird, magnetic influence of the place—for, as she sat in the window, gazing out at the tower, and breathing the breath of the roses which swung at her own casement, her face took on an awed expression, and she spoke, after a time: ‘‘Bertha, do you know sometimes I feel afraid in this solemn old house! All the neighbors hold to the unshaken belief that it is haunted; every old farmer will have a story to tell you about it. They say the doctor’s spirit is wandering about it, searching for his lost gold; some think that nephew who murdered him is still lurking about, living in caves, or dens, or what not, and that he visits the place whenever he dares. Ugh! the very thought makes me shiver! Fancy that demoniac young man coming in at windows of nights, and looking at us as we sleep! I’m certain, Bertha—certain, that

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someone was in that queer room they call the laboratory last Saturday night! I sat up reading a novel until very late, and I went to the diningroom for a glass of ice-water—about two o’clock, it must have been—and I heard a noise in there—a curious noise, which I could hardly explain; it sounded like some mysterious miser counting out his money!’’ ‘‘Nonsense! You had been reading a ghost story, I suppose.’’ ‘‘No: nothing worse than Jane Eyre. I did hear something, as truly as I see you now!’’ ‘‘Mice running amongst the bottles, I suppose.’’ ‘‘Perhaps; but I don’t think it. It had a very supernatural sound, I assure you. By the way, you and Arthur keep very late hours.’’ ‘‘Do you call eleven o’clock ‘late hours’?’’ ‘‘Oh, no, puss; but I happen to know better than that. I heard some one pass, in the upper hall, while I was undressing, and I was so nervous about our being haunted, that I screwed my courage to the sticking-point, and peeped out, just in time to see Arthur close his room door. It was half-past two by my watch.’’ ‘‘Well, I don’t know what he may have done, but mamma sent me to bed at eleven. Perhaps he, too, had a copy of that fascinating Jane Eyre. I have heard of its keeping several people up until the ‘wee sma’ hours.’ ’’ There was a pause, while Bertha finished off the neck of the dress and turned her attention to the sleeves. Then the younger, whose thoughts had run on in the same channel, resumed: ‘‘Inez often talks with me about the Doctor’s missing money. She firmly believes that it is still somewhere about this house or garden; for she says her husband himself secreted it the night before his death.’’ ‘‘Oh, all the world knows that the theory is, that he was followed by his nephew, who saw where the box was placed, and then resolved to get his uncle out of the way, that he alone might enjoy the concealed riches.’’ ‘‘Yes, I know it. But still Inez persists in believing that he did not succeed in getting off with the gold. She says he could hardly have escaped detection had he carried so much with him. Perhaps he is still keeping watch over it, awaiting an opportunity to convey it away.’’ ‘‘They have searched everywhere, even to digging up every foot of the garden.’’ ‘‘I know it. Still, who knows but what we may stumble over it sometime? Inez is always looking. I have a fancy now, that it is in the very top of that tower!’’ ‘‘Do be quiet, Sophie. You make me nervous.’’ ‘‘Here comes Inez. I was just saying, my dark-eyed darling, that perhaps your fortune lay concealed in some cobwebby nook in this old tower.’’ ‘‘Oh, every beam and rafter has been investigated long ago,—the loose 326

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boards of the garret-floor all lifted. No, no, it’s not there! I wish I could find it. I’m tired of being poor!’’ ‘‘You do seem rather poverty-stricken,’’ remarked Bertha, scanning with laughing eyes Inez’ costly morning-robe, and the jewels which she wore, with southern taste, by day as well as evening.’’ ‘‘My cousin is generous enough; he can afford to give me what I want. But that is not all one wants money for,—to buy clothes!’’ ‘‘To buy a husband is it, then?’’ Bertha was on the point of saying, when prudence as well as delicacy checked her; she had heard that her own promised husband had been not insensible to the lady’s attractions; and as she now glanced up she met a strange look in the black eyes. ‘‘I wonder if she is jealous,’’ she thought, as her own eyes fell. ‘‘Arthur told me that she was, but that he had never given her any reason to be,— that it was her natural state of feeling towards all women save herself.’’ ‘‘Why do you wear amber?’’ cried Inez, the next moment, as if no more important thought ever crossed her mind, with a disdainful examination of the satin dress. ‘‘Do you know know that it is a color for brunettes?— my color?’’ ‘‘It is becoming to brunettes, and not unbecoming to dark-haired blondes, like me. Arthur likes it, and that settles the matter.’’ ‘‘He likes it, does he?’’ murmured Inez. ‘‘Yes. This belongs to my trousseau. I shall not wear it until after the ‘important occasion!’ ’’ ‘‘That will be—’’ ‘‘The twentieth of next month.’’ ‘‘And this is—’’ ‘‘The twentieth of June. Ah me! Time flies too quickly!’’ ‘‘Yes it does,’’ assented Inez, ‘‘but a great deal can be accomplished in a month, after all.’’ If her tone was significant, the two girls did not notice it. Arthur Miller might have remarked it, had he been present; for he never felt quite at ease about the Spanish woman, with whose passionate nature he was only too well acquainted. It is true she had made the first advances, since advances can be made by a look as well as a word; but he knew that she was very young, and a creature of untrained impulses, and that nothing could justify his trifling with her as he had done. If any one could have seen into the heart of the young man, he would have discovered that his fancy and his imagination still were held captive by the willful, spirited Cuban; that it was only the preponderance of Bertha’s substantial charms which had outweighed her in the balance; but, as his love, either way, and at the best, is not worth mentioning as a motive power, we will let it pass for what it is worth.

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Women will love such men just as devotedly as those of deeper natures, and prize their poor, selfish preferences just as highly; and Inez felt as bitterly, as humiliated, as revengeful about the desertion of this insincere and shallow man as if his heart had been something worth retaining. ‘‘You have not told me if I am to be one of the bridesmaids,’’ she said, presently. ‘‘But you have been married; it would scarcely be en regle.’’ ‘‘No one will think of that, I am so young yet. Sophie and I will make such a fine contrast. If you say ‘yes,’ it must be in time for me to order a suitable dress.’’ ‘‘Oh, do consent, Bertha! I should like it extremely; and, as Inez says, no one will think, at the time. We must have Lillian, too—she is so lovely!— and one more. Who shall it be?’’ ‘‘I don’t care,’’ answered the bride-elect, indifferently; ‘‘only, I trust it will not be ominous to have a widow among the bridesmaids.’’ Again that light quivering out of Inez’ eyes. ‘‘Inez, supposing we go up in the tower-room. I’ve not been there since the first week we came out. The view is beautiful. I mean to have a carpet put down, and my painting and embroidery carried up there. Then I can sit there the long summer afternoons, and imagine myself the Lady of Shalott, or the betrothed of a troubadour who has gone to the wars.’’ ‘‘Better be securing some nice bona-fide beau, and leave off dreaming of troubadours,’’ called Bertha, as the two went away, linked arm in arm, in search of the narrow, dusty stairway leading up to the ‘‘tower-room,’’ a small, square chamber, unfurnished, save by an old map of Meredith Place, made by the surveyor of the first purchase, and hung in the tower for safe-keeping and reference—this old map, a wooden settle, where those who climbed here for the view, might rest themselves—and a store of old magazines and papers, which Lillian Meredith had brought here, probably, from time to time, to read and muse over. ‘‘Some one comes here, if we do not,’’ remarked Sophie, as they held up their delicate dresses from the dusty stairs; ‘‘here are the prints of a man’s boots, going up and coming down, more than once. Possibly some of our visitors have discovered the beauties of this location. Oh, how entrancing! clouds and blue ether above us! this beautiful country below! I’m in love with this room! absolutely in love with it. I mean to live and die here. But first, I must have it cleared out! Betty shall attend to it this very day. And to-morrow I shall bring my things here, and take up my residence.’’ ‘‘You don’t mean to sleep here?’’ inquired Inez, with a shudder. ‘‘I wouldn’t stay here alone for all the world.’’ ‘‘I’m not as superstitious as you, little darling. Still, I don’t know that I care to sleep here. I can enjoy enough of my tower by daylight and sun328

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set, I dare say. Ah, how splendid the sunset must be up here! Now, Bertha hasn’t a particle of romance in her nature. But I am full of it, trifling as I appear. I could be happy here weeks at a time, without the excitement of any society. I do wish papa would buy Meredith Place, and make it our home altogether, in the summer season. I must coax him to do so. What does this yellow old map say? two hundred and eighty acres,—and here it is, marked out, hill and dale, meadow and upland, forests and cleared fields; this pretty trout-brook where we took the gentleman the other day, you remember, and your cousin caught a trout on a hook made of a pin. I wonder if we can see it from the tower! Yes, there it is, glimmering a moment out of its shadow in that field by the wood: ‘I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling.’

Isn’t it perfect, Inez?’’ ‘‘What?’’ queried her companion, with indifference,—‘‘the brook? I suppose so. But, I don’t care for such things. I wish Meredith Place was mine—as it should be—as it ought to be’’—her voice rising with excitement as she thought of it; ‘‘I would gladly sell it to your father, and see no more of it. I don’t like the country, and I don’t like this place. We were so unhappy here,’’ she explained, ‘‘Lillian and I. And then to be robbed, as we were.’’ ‘‘You have had a great deal of trouble,’’ replied Sophie, soothingly. ‘‘It must have been so hard for you two young girls to be left helpless. I can not imagine what I would do without papa, and without any money. I suppose I should have to teach school, as Miss Meredith does; but, oh, dear, I should pity my pupils! I suppose Miss Miller was a great comfort to you, in your first desolation.’’ ‘‘No, not to me. I detest her!’’ ‘‘Why, is it possible? We all think so much of her.’’ ‘‘I beg your pardon, Sophie. I forgot that her brother was to marry your sister. Lillian thinks the world of her; but I never did. She was jealous of me when I first came here; I could guess that she did not like my marrying the doctor, but you must not mention it, please, Sophie. Her eyes look straight through any one. I never like to meet them. If you really like Meredith Place so much, you must make yourself agreeable to Miguel. He tells me he is negotiating for it, himself. I do believe he intends giving it back to Lillian, whether she marries him or not. He need not buy it on my account, as I told him, for I would never live here again. I wish Miguel would marry you instead of Lily; then I might be induced

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to visit her occasionally. I suppose, in that case, you would spend your summers here.’’ ‘‘How ridiculous!’’ cried her friend, blushing, ‘‘to be speaking of such things, when he has never thought of me. You speak, too, as if Don Miguel had only to choose in order to be chosen.’’ ‘‘Well, Sophie, you couldn’t help loving him, you know, if he should try to make you! There are not many men like my cousin.’’ Sophie said nothing; but there was a shadow on her fair face, as the two turned and went down the staircase. Frivolous as their mode of life naturally made her, she had more real feeling than three such girls as Bertha, and it is not impossible that she admired Don Miguel more than was consistent with her happiness. However, she was by no means one of the desponding and melancholy kind; her interest, at present, fixed itself on the tower-chamber, and she gave the household no peace, until Betty had swept down the cobwebs, laid a carpet on the floor, scoured the stairs, and carried up a little table to hold her water-color paints and work-basket. Then, with the ivy curtaining the narrow and lofty windows, and the June breezes wandering up from the beds of roses below, Sophie declared it the region midway between heaven and earth where she most delighted to dwell, and made every one come up and acknowledge how charming it was. She was not tired of talking of her tower-chamber, when Saturday evening came, and with it Arthur Miller, as usual, to spend Sunday with his betrothed. There were half a dozen other guests about the tea-table, eating strawberries and cream to their hearts’ content, when Sophie, sitting opposite Arthur, suddenly exclaimed in her animated way: ‘‘I have not told you yet, of my great discovery.’’ ‘‘What is that?’’ he asked, with his pleasantest smile. ‘‘Of the tower-chamber!’’ His spoon fell crushing into his plate, causing all eyes to turn in his direction. His face was pale and his hand trembled, but he laughed, constrainedly, as he said ‘‘he believed he had had something resembling a sunstroke, as he walked down to the cars, and he did not feel just right yet.’’ Bertha wanted to be anxious about him, but he assured her the tea would be the best remedy, and when the attention he had attracted was again diverted, he said to Sophie: ‘‘What about the tower—anything new?’’ ‘‘Oh, no, nothing new—only we never discovered it before.’’ ‘‘Discovered what?’’ ‘‘Why, how charming it is up there, of course. I shall no longer give it over to spiders and bats. I have had the chamber furbished and furnished, 330

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and have taken possession in my own name, by right of discovery. I call it ‘The Lady’s Bower.’ ’’ ‘‘Is that all?’’ ‘‘I should say it was enough. Did you expect there was another continent to be divulged? Since you speak so slightingly of my bower, your punishment shall be to ascend and explore it immediately after tea. It is then in all its glory.’’ ‘‘Arthur is fatigued. Do let the bower rest until to-morrow.’’ Bertha was a little impatient. ‘‘By no means,’’ said Arthur, quickly. ‘‘I should like nothing better than to explore it this very evening. I have been up once or twice when the doctor’s family was here. The view is very fine, if I remember aright.’’ And as soon as they left the table he reminded Sophie of her promise, and the two went up to the tower, just then illumined with the roseate reflections of a summer sunset. ‘‘It is, indeed, charming. I can not too much admire your discrimination, little sister. Oh, dear! here is the old map of the original estate—quiet a curiosity! Don’t disturb that, Miss Sophie; it may be of importance to purchasers sometimes.’’ ‘‘Oh, no! I shall not meddle with the map,’’ said his companion, and after that, although he was warm in praise of her bower, he seemed ready to forsake it for the company of the young lady who awaited him below, and Sophie was left to a twilight reverie in her tower-chamber.

chapter xviii A Few Threads Miss Miller sat in the little low chamber of Lillian’s house which she had occupied since the day of the accident, which had disabled her from returning to the city for such a length of time that she decided to have Lillian write to Mrs. Chateaubriand to procure another governess, her engagement coming to a close in a few weeks, at best. It was now the first of July, and a period of rest to be enjoyed; to her, from physical pain, to Lillian, from the cares of her school—this being the first day of the summer vacation. Miss Miller leaned back in her armchair, looking idly out of the window and listening to a murmur of voices coming up from the parlor beneath; she could distinguish nothing that

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was said, and did not try to; but she knew who were there, and the probable topic of their conversation. Her face, paler and thinner than its wont, bore the look of mental trouble. Bodily suffering might bring pallor and loss of flesh, but it had not here, for the woman’s courage was great, and her splendid physique enabled her to bear the pain of a broken arm without flinching; that was not what had changed her and given that settled contraction to the black brows and drawn lines about the firm mouth. The low fever which had kept her a prisoner from April until July was entirely a mental malady. There had been no gossip whatever in the village about the accident. When Lillian received my messages by Meredith Place, unlocked the door whose key I had left on the outside, sat down by the bed where her friend lay looking up at her with defiant eyes, asked and received an explanation. Whatever that explanation was, it was of a character not to entirely break the existing friendship; when the two had had ‘‘their talk out,’’ Miss Meredith called gram’me and sent her to the hotel, with a penciled message to Arthur Miller to come, quietly, with a carriage, for his sister had been injured by a fall at the old house, and needed assistance to return to her (Lillian’s) home. Arthur had responded speedily to the call. He must have been very much alarmed, for he was trembling visibly, and was whiter than his sister when he came into the laboratory. ‘‘Good heavens, Annie! What—how—’’ ‘‘Never mind the what or how, Arthur. I fell and broke my arm. A physician has already set it. What I want of you is to convey me home before the neighbors get a hint of what has occurred and come crowding in.’’ He gave a sharp glance about the room. Lillian, at Miss Miller’s request, had previously gathered up the money in the bag and placed it in a little basket on her arm, yielding to the former’s suggestion to keep matters quiet by concealing from the public what had been discovered. ‘‘You must have been out early,’’ remarked Arthur, when his survey was completed. ‘‘Was Miss Meredith with you?—and how did you contrive to fall in that awkward style?’’ ‘‘I was out early; Lillian was not with me; and you know I am always awkward. I don’t feel much like indulging in long explanations.’’ Something in her tone brought the blood into his face, which was now as red as it had been pale. ‘‘I am glad you are hurt no worse, Annie,’’ he said, after an instant’s hesitation; and for once in his life there did really seem to be a touch of genuine feeling in his tones. ‘‘My state of mind was not enviable when I received the message, not knowing how serious the accident might have been.’’ And, indeed, he still looked haggard. 332

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‘‘I have the easiest carriage I could get at the livery. Come, sis, shall I help you up now? And who set your broken arm?—has old Doctor Smith been here?’’ ‘‘Never mind about the doctor. It is set and that suffices. Now.’’ She walked firmly enough to the carriage but its motion as they drove over the country-road, was a pretty severe trial; and when they helped her out at the cottage, she was quite ready to go to bed. That night she insisted on her brother staying with her, and lying on the couch in her chamber, saying that she was feverish and should want occasional attention, and that Lily should not be broken of her rest;— Sabbath night the same, it would be time enough for Lillian to take her turn when Arthur was no longer there. He had submitted quite meekly, and, altogether, was so attentive to his sister, so obedient to her caprices, so really anxious about her, as to rise considerably in Lillian’s esteem, who usually had small respect for him. Inez could hardly feel sorry at Miss Miller’s sufferings—she was thereby given so fine an opportunity for trying the charms with which the old woman of the forest had supplied her; and, whether the spell worked, or whether it were simply that the black eyes were present and the blue ones absent, Arthur was at her feet as in the days before he met Bertha, begging for Spanish songs, and smiling to see the light glow in those wonderful, lustrous eyes. But the greatest change which the events of the last two days had worked was in the mind of Lillian Meredith. Any one, knowing her well, as Miss Miller did, would have said that she had found relief from some pressing and constant care. It could not have been the acquisition of the thousand dollars which had come so strangely into her possession, which thus lightened her steps and brightened her eyes. What Miss Miller had told her, only themselves knew. My letter could not have had the effect I desired, since her governess still was her dear friend, and no viper, as I had informed her she ought to consider her. Had I been where I could have observed the effect, I should have told myself that the consummate art of that woman had carried her safety through this disaster, and left me lower sunken than ever in the opinion of the only person on earth for whose opinion I cared. But I was far away from there at length, considering that my intermeddling had accomplished all it ever would; and as Gram’me Hooker’s education had never reached to the height of inditing and directing a letter without assistance, and as I had forgotten to arrange with her to address me under an assumed name, I was entirely without means of knowing how the story of life was unfolding, leaf by leaf, at Meredith Place. Unfolding, rosily enough, under the apple-blossoms of May and the

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flowery bowers of June, as far as any human eye might read. For, as has been written, there was an unusual amount of gayety; youth, leisure, and wealth, held high holiday, not only at the old mansion, but all around the pleasant village. It was to be taken for granted that the bride elect was happy; Sophie had her beaux and Inez her cavaliers, while Lillian was followed by Don Miguel as by a shadow. And now, as said at the beginning of this chapter, summer had come, bringing with it the beginning of a holiday for Lillian. Miss Miller sat, thinking and listening, while the murmur of voices went on below. At last, her thoughts over-ran her lips: ‘‘I do pray that she will decide in his favor. If she accepts him, this dark, dark night of doubt and sin will begin to break. If she refuses him, what is there for any of us but suffering, suffering, disgrace! Ah, me! if I could quiet the voice of conscience—as I can, as I will, if she marries the Don. She will be rich, then, rich and happy; hers will be a brilliant destiny, and I need mar no other to make hers.’’ Again she relapsed into reverie, until the sound of a hasty step, of some one going out the little gate, startled her, and she leaned forward eagerly— ‘‘He has gone! she has refused him!’’ ‘‘You are the picture of despair,’’ cried Lillian, breaking into her room. ‘‘What has happened to give you such a desperate expression?’’ Her own face was flushed and the tear on her cheek was not dry. ‘‘It is you who must tell me that, child. You knew my heart was set on your accepting Don Miguel, and you have refused him. I can tell it by the manner of his leaving the house. And of course he will never speak to you again. This is the third time.’’ ‘‘He should not have persisted.’’ ‘‘O, Lily, he loves you so, and is in every way a gentleman. I do not know what you can be thinking of, to throw away such an opportunity.’’ ‘‘Opportunity, for what?’’ ‘‘Getting settled in life.’’ ‘‘So a husband is only to be viewed as a means of getting settled for life! Now, I thought you had more enthusiastic views, my dear friend. And as for the settlement—are not we, you and I, settled for life? I thought you liked it as much as I.’’ ‘‘You dear, heroic darling! do you suppose I wish to devote you, in your youth and beauty, to the same shrine upon which I was sacrificed? If you can do no better, stay with your old friend. But, here is a vista of splendor opens before you; even your vivid imagination could never have pictured anything better. I need not go over the list of the Don’s good qualities; he loves you sincerely, wants you for his wife, and you strangely refuse him. Lillian, what is the matter with you?’’ 334

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The pure blue eyes met the stormy, troubled ones of her friend. ‘‘I do not love him,—that is all. He is a foreigner; our tastes and habits are not in sympathy. I admire him more than any man I ever met; but I do not love him—never shall. I do not care for the gay life he leads. My native woods and country walks are dear to me. I love this village, and I love you, Miss Miller, and wish to spend my life with you. I thought we should ‘live happily ever after,’ as they say in novels, and here you are doing your best to drive me away from you.’’ ‘‘There’s an obstinate grain in your temper, Lillian.’’ ‘‘Perhaps there is. If so, I ought to be glad of it; for surely I shall need a mind of my own, since I have my own way to make in the world.’’ ‘‘But, you need not make your way; another stands ready to care for you, and that is what I desire to see done.’’ ‘‘Please, say no more about it,’’ pleaded the young girl, kissing the other’s cheek; ‘‘I’m wearied out with my argument with him. He is not as mild as an angel, I assure you; though he has far, far more self-control than Inez. He went away deeply offended, despite of the tear with which I asked him to forgive me; but if anger will make his disappointment any easier to bear, I shall not be sorry. I suppose he will leave Hampton, taking his cousin with him, as soon as the wedding is over. It is only three weeks until then, and I believe Inez will wish to remain.’’ ‘‘Since you persist in this folly of throwing away all that is joyous and bright in your young life, I must say that the sooner those two go away the better. I would give much to have Inez away from here before the marriage.’’ ‘‘Why?’’ ‘‘To tell you the truth, I am afraid of a scene. She imagines yet that she has an interest in Arthur.’’ ‘‘I hope you are mistaken, Miss Miller. She has seemed very happy, lately,—entirely taken up with her engagements to pleasure-parties and in planning her dress for the coming occasion.’’ ‘‘Inez is not what you think her, child; I am glad she is going away from you.’’ The tears welled into Lillian’s eyes. ‘‘She has been rather of a trial, in some respects, I acknowledge,—but, after all, she was my father’s wife.’’ A shudder which she could not repress ran through Miss Miller’s frame. ‘‘She was—she was, Lily—that is the worst of it!’’ ‘‘Do you think her so bad, then?’’ ‘‘Totally unfit to have been his wife. She is good enough for Arthur, though. I wish he had married her!’’ ‘‘Why, what is the matter with you, this afternoon? I thought Arthur

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was the apple of your eye. I shall believe you are a little insane, you talk so at random.’’ ‘‘Don’t say that!’’ with a horrified air; ‘‘you may be touching very near the truth. Sometimes I think I am losing my reason. What would you think, Lillian, of a woman thirty-five years of age, of keen intellect and good moral cultivation, who could not tell right from wrong?’’ ‘‘Could not tell right from wrong?’’ ‘‘Yes, if the plainest question of right was put to her, she distorted it, twisted it to suit a glaring wrong,—wouldn’t you say that her mind must be diseased?’’ Lillian looked up into the deep, dark eyes, whose troubled gaze turned away from hers, wondering at the anxious, wrinkled brow, and the sad voice. ‘‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Miss Miller; but this I know, your mind is sound as a judge’s ought to be, and your heart—is only too tender to a clinging orphan, who has no other friend,’’—and she laid her head on the other’s knee, who made a movement as if to push it away, but restrained herself. Neither spoke, for some time, then Miss Miller repeated: ‘‘I wish you would recall Don Miguel.’’ ‘‘I can not.’’ ‘‘If I could see you happily married to him, I believe my perplexities would be at an end.’’ ‘‘You are as bad as some match-making mammas.’’ ‘‘Yes, I suppose so. I want you to do well my child, in a worldly sense,— to see you in possession of at least as much fortune as you would have had had Dr. Meredith lived. That would content me, I think,’’ with a sigh. ‘‘And I think the sooner we return to an ordinary state of existence the sooner we shall be content. We will regard Don Miguel, hereafter, as a brilliant meteor flashing across our Northern sky; now we must be satisfied with the ‘cold light of stars.’ ’’ ‘‘Well, Lillian, I can only say that you have disappointed me, and made great trouble. If you only could!’’ ‘‘But I could not, Miss Miller; and I don’t like to feel that I am making trouble, or being obstinate. Perhaps you do not care to have me to live with you. Perhaps you are tired of me.’’ ‘‘Lillian, I love you better than anything on earth; say no more; I have hurt your feelings—let it pass. That is not the worst. You will know, soon enough. Justice shall be done, as soon as I have conquered the last weakness of my nature. Do you know what has become of Inez this afternoon?’’ ‘‘She went to walk in the direction of Gram’me Hooker’s.’’ 336

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‘‘Alone?’’ ‘‘I think so. She has taken quite a fancy to Gram’me; they have long talks together now-a-days.’’ ‘‘What sort of person is Mrs. Hooker?’’ ‘‘You have seen her often enough to judge for yourself.’’ ‘‘I mean is she a conscientious, reliable woman; or is she one of those who would do anything for money?’’ ‘‘Oh, she is a good woman,—I wish I were as good.’’ ‘‘Then no great harm can come from Inez’ visits.’’ ‘‘Of course not. But, I am surprised that Inez is so interested in her, when she used only to ridicule her.’’ ‘‘Some one else pays long visits, too. Gram’me must be a very entertaining old lady.’’ Lillian blushed. ‘‘Gram’me and I have been friends ever since I was old enough to remember. I go there to talk over old times with her and to see to her wants, and—’’ she paused. ‘‘So I suppose,’’ remarked Miss Miller, dryly. ‘‘I do believe you are in a fault-finding mood to-day,’’ said Lillian, her voice trembling slightly. ‘‘I do not know how I shall put you in a better humor unless I go and provide something very nice for tea,’’ and with that sweetness of disposition which made her what she was—so lovable to all— she conquered the resentment she felt at her friend’s manner, and went down to the little kitchen to suggest something appetizing for the invalid. When she had gone, Miss Miller sprang to her feet and raged about the little room like a lioness in her den. She was not one to give way easily to outside demonstrations of emotion, so that, had Lillian see her, as she now appeared, with clenched hands and teeth set in her under lip, she would have been both surprised and shocked. ‘‘It shall be done! If the old house tumbles about their ears, it shall be done! If I had possessed courage from the first, fewer friends would have been involved in the ruin. I have seen the golden stream wasting—wasting, and my life-blood has wasted with it. I will keep silence till the twentieth of July,—until after,—until it is too late—O, what a miserable compromise! How am I punished!’’

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chapter xix A Midsummer Night’s Drama You have heard of hearts caught in the rebound? This threatened to be the fate of Don Miguel’s, and Sophie was the happy maiden who had the chance of catching it. Sophie always had been pretty enough, but so colorless and inert beside her magnificent and spirited sister, as to scarcely receive due appreciation. She was like a pink rose beside a scarlet geranium, or Madame Pauline’s blue dress in one of Josephine’s green chairs. Now, however, the excitement of hope and expectation,—and, too, we will do her the justice to confess—the development of all the imagination, passion, and romance, of which she was capable, combined with country air and the joyous business of preparing for her sister’s wedding, were acting upon her far more efficaciously than any cosmetic she had ever tried. Her lady-mother looked upon her with admiring surprise, while Bertha condescended to approve and encourage, now that no danger existed, of their interests clashing. Sophie’s hair was flaxen, not golden, like Lily’s, and she trained it into flossy ringlets, very becoming to her fair, delicate face; she wore roses in her hair, too, after Lillian’s fashion, and put on little shy, graceful airs that were not in her usual style. To look in at Meredith Place on any of these golden, languorous July days, no one not previously informed could dream of the tragedy which had darkened it a little over a year ago, nor that the icy shadow of that tragedy had only withdrawn itself a little while, and was creeping, creeping slowly and surely back, with a double darkness in its chill. One soul there knew of the approaching shadow, and felt the premonitory gloom, but all others were basking in the brightest sunshine of their lives. Inez and Lillian were at the house almost constantly, there were so many consultations to hold, and so many pleasant tasks to perform; while Miss Miller could not refuse the urgent solicitations of Mrs. Chateaubriand to stay with them a few weeks and take upon herself a portion of the responsibilities weighing down the matron—cares no heavier than the ordering of refreshments, the arrangement of rooms, and the small details of invitations, cards, etc., so that she was now an inmate of the mansion, and would remain there until after the wedding. A troop of beautiful girls—lighting up the old place with their sunny faces, exciting themselves delightfully all the long mornings over new dresses, and wreaths, and the bridal vail, allowing themselves to be entertained by ambitious young gentlemen through the later hours of the afternoon—at evening filling the old hall, the porches and parlors, with sweet 338

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laughter, murmuring asides, music and song—cast the witchery of their youth and loveliness over the ruins of the past. Mrs. Chateaubriand was busy and satisfied, now that her second daughter promised to do so well, overlooking the mesalliance of the first, and making a great pet of Lillian, who had been such a little goose as to resign Don Miguel in Sophie’s favor. Not that any one was by any means certain that the Don would so easily change his affections; he was less gay than formerly, and his gaze often lingered upon Lillian with more of sadness than anger; but, pride prompted him to the effort of being attentive to some other lady, and his attentions fell, by chance, upon Sophie. Even this was much to hope from,—only the time was short; for, directly after the marriage festivities, Don Miguel was to take his cousin away on a round of the fashionable summer resorts,—and then, in the autumn, back to Havana. Miss Miller was the only one who did not improve under the sunny influences of the time. Pale, wrapped in thought, nervous, easily startled, with no appetite and no spirits, her illness had left her in a state which gave serious alarm to Lillian, who hoped the visit at Mrs. Chateaubriand’s would do her friend good, but who noticed that she daily grew more absentminded, walking about like one lost in dreams. In fact, Miss Miller’s old habit of sleep-walking had returned upon her, in the present state of her health, and many nights she moved like a ghost amid the garden-walks and along the halls of Meredith Place. Mrs. Chateaubriand wished some one to share her room in order to care for her, and break up, if possible, this dangerous and inconvenient habit of sleep-walking, but Miss Miller was so averse to having a servant, or even one of the young ladies in her apartment, that the suggestion was dropped. Her brother Arthur manifested real uneasiness at her new freaks of somnambulism, and was urgent, almost to anger, that she should have some one sleep with her, but she persistently refused. He came up a fortnight before the wedding, and took rooms at the Hampton House. Don Miguel, and the other young men, laughed at his nervousness and his impatience at the lagging steps of time. The bride-elect may well have felt flattered at this eager count of the lessening days. One evening—the tenth of July—the gay party gathered in the parlor were startled by the sudden bursting of a thunder-storm overhead. It was an awful storm, lasting several hours, and when it had subsided somewhat it did not entirely give over raining, so that the visitors were glad to accept the invitation to remain over night. Inez, who staid with Sophie more than half the time, shared the room of the latter, as usual, while Lillian accepted Miss Miller’s rather reluctant offer of hers. As soon as they reached the chamber Lillian began to undress, being

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wearied out with the sultry day; but Miss Miller sat by the open window watching the tremulous play of the distant lightning, and listening to the mournful cry of a whip-poor-will, which pierced the darkness with its melancholy complaint. ‘‘Are you not coming to bed, Miss Miller? You are so pale, I am sure you must be fatigued.’’ ‘‘Yes, I am tired, Lily,—very, very tired, with a weariness which sleep will not remove.’’ She spoke so languidly, so hopelessly, that the young girl turned and came to her side, noticing more than ever before, the hard, rigid lines which were settling upon the face of her best friend—a face square and powerful for a woman’s at its best, and now fixed in a stern, sallow harshness, which would have repelled any one but her companion. ‘‘Miss Miller, you have some trouble, which you do not tell me.’’ ‘‘Let me alone—let me alone a few days. You will know soon enough.’’ ‘‘You are not going away?’’—that was the worst thing Lily could think of. ‘‘No, child—not unless you send me.’’ ‘‘You do not mean—it can not be that you—have learned—know— have discovered anything about poor papa!’’ exclaimed Lily, falling on her knees, and gazing up with a wild look at the stony face before her. ‘‘Nothing new, darling Lily; why do you question me? If I have anything to tell, you shall know it in due time. Go to bed;—you are exciting yourself too much. I will come in a few moments,’’ and she kissed the young girl, gently pushing her away,—‘‘not that I expect much rest to-night. I shall walk in my sleep, I dare say. I always do when there is a thunder-storm,— and I always feel wearied the next day, as if I had kept watch.’’ ‘‘I waken so easily; if you stir I shall hear you, and then I will not let you leave the room,’’ said Lillian, and creeping into bed, she laid with wide-open eyes fixed on the pale face of her governess, relieved against the blackness of the open window. She meant to be very wakeful and to take excellent care of the somnambulist, but, presently, the drowsy lids drew together, the flush of sleep warmed in the delicate cheek, she just turned with a soft breath, when her friend laid down beside her and knew no more for hours. When Lillian awoke the hall clock was striking three. She reached out her hand, and finding the bed vacant, sprang out upon the floor. A night lamp was burning dimly; through the casement she could see the stars breaking through flying and ragged clouds; the door of the chamber was half-way open. Throwing a dressing-gown over her night-robe, and thrusting her feet into slippers, she went softly but quickly out into the hall, where a light always was kept burning, by order of the mistress of the 340

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house. Finding no one in the lower hall she ran lightly down the stairs, and proceeding towards the back door, she almost ran against some one crouching down by the laboratory door. ‘‘Is it you, Miss Miller?’’ she whispered, not caring to awaken the household by speaking more loudly. At first there was no answer, but, upon her pressing more closely, the figure straightened itself and she made out Inez. ‘‘What do you want?’’ she whispered defiantly. ‘‘I am looking for Miss Miller; she has gone out, in one of her trances again. Have you seen her?’’ ‘‘No,’’ replied Inez, evidently relieved, and coming forward, ‘‘but I heard her pass my door, and slipped out to look for her. I fancied she might have gone in here, but all is dark and still. She may be in the garden. Do not go out in those thin slippers. As for me, I’m going back to bed. If she will walk in her sleep, walk she must,—I shall not run the risk of a cold.’’ Darting noiselessly up stairs, Lillian heard her close the door of Sophie’s room; she tried the outside doors, but, as they all were fastened, decided that the somnambulist could not have gone out; so she passed through the parlor and library, and on up to her room, just in time to see the one of whom she was in search glide into it in advance of herself. Lillian followed and closed the door. ‘‘Lily, Lily.’’ said the sleeper, walking up to the bed and speaking in a sharp whisper, ‘‘Where are you?’’ ‘‘Here I am. I have been looking for you.’’ ‘‘The figure eight! ’’ continued the somnambulist, turning and coming towards her with staring, stony eyes, and one arm extended. ‘‘I have found it, Lily,—look here!’’ As she approached the other saw something glitter in the out-stretched hand, which, as she held it up, clutching it tightly, Lillian perceived was a handful of ingots. ‘‘See, Lily, see, the figure eight!’’ Lillian turned very faint with surprise, excitement, and the terrible thrill which ran through her at sight of the stony face, and the eager hand clutching her father’s gold. ‘‘Where did you get it? Oh, Miss Miller, awake, awake, and tell me where you have been and what this means!’’ ‘‘I followed him,’’ said the governess, still in the same hollow whisper. ‘‘Him! the wicked, the ungrateful. Oh, how he makes my heart ache.’’ ‘‘Who?’’ ‘‘You know, Lily! why should we speak his name?’’ That is my secret,— that is what is killing me by inches. But the whole world will know now.

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No, no! I have found the box now, and all is well. All is well—well! I need not betray—need not disgrace. I have looked so long for that box now, Lillian, that you might have your own, and yet not ruin him. Take them— feel of them, then you will be sure!’’ Lillian, with a nervous shudder, took the dull, slender, heavy bars in her fingers, looked at them, and laid them on the table. ‘‘Have you found the box?’’ she asked, beginning to tremble as if with cold. ‘‘Yes, I followed him. I stood behind him, and he did not see me. When he was gone I took a few to show you.’’ ‘‘Where is it?’’ ‘‘Come, we will go there, right away, before I forget.’’ She opened the door and glided out, followed by Lillian, pale as the shadow of a phantom following the phantom which led, going along the upper hall to the side passage which branched to the east, straight to the door which led up to the tower. This she opened, and was about to place her foot on the stairs, when she paused, put her hand to her forehead, and murmured—‘‘No, it was down—was it up?—no, down.’’ Hesitating a moment, she began to ascend, but in climbing the steep and narrow stair she made a misstep and came to her knees, with a shock which wakened her. ‘‘Where am I?’’ she exclaimed, looking wildly about, and then finding herself on her knees at the foot of the tower staircase, and poor Lillian bending over her with a distressed expression, she burst out laughing and went off into a hysteric fit. Though much frightened, for she had been told that the shock to the system from too sudden awakening was dangerous, Lillian had presence of mind to coax and drag her into the main hall, before she summoned help; then, calling Mrs. Chateaubriand’s maid, who was also quite a nurse, the two conveyed Miss Miller back to her bed, where the maid administered one of her mistress’s favorite nervines, while Lillian hastily concealed the ingots in her bureau. Nearly all the household were awakened by the convulsive laughter of the somnambulist, but when the matter was explained to them they retired again—all save Arthur, who dressed himself, or was already dressed when the alarm occurred, and who, pale and restless, wished to watch with his sister. But, as he could not very well force himself into a young lady’s chamber, and as the nurse avowed herself equal to the occasion, he was obliged to leave the patient in other hands. In the course of two or three hours Miss Miller grew calm and fell asleep under the effects of the anodynes given; Lillian then dismissed the maid, who said to her— 342

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‘‘Better take an hour’s rest yourself, Mademoiselle. It’s a long time yet till breakfast, though it’s broad daylight.’’ She did lie down on the lounge, but the scene of the night had been too exciting, and she could only act it over and over in thought, as she lay there, sleepless, watching the wan face on the pillow. ‘‘How she has changed in a year! She used to be so handsome—and so strong. She worries far more about that miserable money than I. I wish she would give it up—as I have! But no, she has found it at last—there is the proof! Oh, how can I wait for her to waken and explain? Now I shall send for Cousin Joe. Yes, if he will not come to me, I will go to him and tell him the truth. My poor, brave, faithful governess! She told me, at the time her arm was broken, that some one was here who knew where the box was, but who dared not convey it away, but that she had not yet discovered who this person was. Now, doubtless, she had seen and recognized him. This wretched mystery will be at an end.’’ She waited impatiently, but the patient slept on heavily, and the watcher’s thoughts varied, although always centering about the same subject, tears dropping as the image of her father came back vividly, and a blush drying them on her cheeks as another picture arose, embodying some scene in the future. When the rising-bell rang she dressed herself, seeing that Miss Miller was not disturbed; she was one of the first to enter the breakfast room, and had to answer the inquiries of all. Inez gave her a singular look as she came in with her fair double, but asked not a question, nor referred to her little part in the night’s performance. Arthur took a seat by Lillian, making several inquiries about his sister. She really pitied him, he was so anxious, and had so little appetite for his breakfast; and making an effort to show her friendliness, she evidently succeeded in lightening his uneasiness, so that he appeared less restrained as the meal progressed. Inez’ eyes continued to flash lightnings across the table; Lillian noticed something peculiar in her manner; but, as the Cuban was in the habit of letting her feelings be known without delay, and as she said less than usual, Lillian concluded that she must have misread her expression. When she returned to her room, too eager to find her friend awake to care to linger with the pleasure-seekers below, Miss Miller lay quietly staring at the wall. ‘‘If you had not disturbed me, last night,’’ she said, listlessly, ‘‘I suppose I should have got along well enough. It is the sudden shock which affects the nerves.’’ ‘‘I did not waken you. It was your stumbling which did it. Will you have anything, dear Miss Miller?’’ ‘‘A cup of coffee, as strong as they please to make it.’’

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Lily rang the bell and made her request; the coffee came, with a slice of toast; was drank, and the servant sent away; then the patient appeared disposed to sleep again. Lillian hesitated whether to broach the subject, and, ever considerate of others, finally concluded to keep silence until the other spoke of her own free will. ‘‘If you feel inclined to rest, I will go down.’’ ‘‘Go, if you wish, child; I do feel more quiet than I have in days. Doubtless rest is what I most need.’’ She went out to find all the ladies of the house gathered in Bertha’s room, in a high state of excitement over the arrival, that morning, by express, of the wedding dress and bonnet. The dress was of white moire-antique, rich, heavy and lustrous; the bonnet as ‘‘lovely a thing’’ as the female heart could desire. All were lavish in their praises. Nothing would do but Bertha must try on the robe, which she did, and found the fit as perfect as the material. Drawing her fine figure to its full height, the bride-elect looked at the beautiful image reflected in the glass, with a smile half-proud, halftender. She could hardly have been otherwise than satisfied, which her expression confessed her to be. ‘‘What a charming bride she will make,’’ murmured Lillian, turning to Inez for sympathy in her admiration. The Cuban was watching Bertha so intently that she did not hear the remark. Lillian was surprised at the expression of Inez’ countenance, whose usually rich brunette color had taken on almost a greenish tinge; her eyes had grown small and dull,—the lids lay across them in a straight line, from under which gleamed a single sparkle of light:—if ever malice and jealousy were written so that ‘‘he who runs may read,’’ they were written there. Lily, poor child, could think of nothing but a serpent the moment before it strikes; she felt terrified, and laid her hand on Inez’ arm, who started, turning to her with an unpleasant laugh. ‘‘I asked you if you did not consider her a beautiful bride?’’ repeated Lily, embarrassed, she knew not why. ‘‘Yes, certainly—she will make a beautiful bride—if she ever becomes one! I wish Arthur could see her now!’’ and she turned away,—and went to the window to avoid the subject of Bertha’s perfections. ‘‘I wish Inez was not so illy-governed,’’ mused Lillian, not for the first time. ‘‘She keeps herself unhappy. Why did she say—‘‘If she ever becomes one’’? Once or twice in the course of the morning she stole back to look at Miss Miller, who had fallen asleep the second time, and, although very pale, was enjoying a profound and refreshing slumber. Her interest in the finale of the sleep-walking story was so keen as to tempt her to rouse 344

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the sleeper, but she restrained herself each time and went away; however, being too agitated by suspense and painful memories, to enjoy any society, she went the second time, down the deserted garden, blooming under the full warmth of high-noon, in search of a shaded nook in the old arbor, where she could be alone. She had been seated but a little while over a book which she held, but did not read, when Arthur Miller came sauntering along, and entered the arbor. He started when he found it occupied, removed the cigar from his lips, asked permission to share the bench, and when she had given it, threw himself down with a weary sigh. ‘‘Is it the heat?’’ asked the young lady, with a smile. ‘‘I believe it is, in part. Life is very unsatisfactory, taken as a whole. It is too warm, or too cold; too bright, or too dull; too wet, or too dry, and as the weather is, so is everything else. Poor human-nature is ennuied to death half the time.’’ ‘‘I hardly expected such a view of life from your lips, just at present, Mr. Miller.’’ ‘‘Oh, I’m not without my due share of troubles, I assure you. I am marrying a woman richer than myself,—and that’s not the most charming arrangement for a man of any spunk.’’ ‘‘Then why do you do it?’’ his listener was about to ask, but checked herself, betraying her surprise by her expression. ‘‘People won’t give me credit for any real love in the matter, you see. If Miss Chateaubriand were twice as beautiful and twice as lovable, I should have the credit of marrying her for her money.’’ ‘‘Which you certainly have, in my mind,’’ thought Lillian, saying nothing. ‘‘And then, there is Annie. She’s not the woman she used to be, Miss Meredith. And these somnambulic tricks of hers worry me more than I am willing to confess to any one. I heartily wish she had not come to Meredith Place before the wedding. It would have been better for her at your quiet cottage. She adds to the excitement inseparable from the ‘coming event,’ and which reacts upon her in a very unpleasant way. I wish you would persuade her to go home with you this afternoon.’’ ‘‘She is staying at Mrs. Chateaubriand’s particular request, whom it will disappoint if she leaves at this hurried time. Still, if you think her health demands it, I will propose it to them.’’ ‘‘I do wish you would, Miss Meredith. You can’t imagine how she worries me;’’ then, as Lillian looked up, at the pettish, ill-humored tone, adding, ‘‘I am so afraid that she will come to serious harm. She might have killed herself, last night. I am getting so nervous, at night, I start at every sound, imagining Annie has stepped out of a second-story window, or fallen off the roof,’’ and he forced a laugh.

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Lillian had remarked this very nervousness, and sleepless look in him, and now attributed it to the cause he gave. ‘‘I will propose to her to go home with me, if she feels as if she should rest better there,’’ she said. It is but a few days now, at all events, till the great affair will be over; then I shall try and persuade her to try a change of scene for a month. We shall not open our school until the twentieth of September.’’ ‘‘A few days, I know,—but supposing she should break her neck in the meantime?’’ Lillian did not like his hard tone, nor ill-concealed impatience,—it looked far more to her as if he did not wish to be annoyed by his sister’s exploits, than like any deep interest in her health. So she remained silent, and he sat there moodily, until the lunch-bell summoned them to the house, when he immediately resumed the gay manner which had won him his way in society, offered her his arm, and conducted her to the dining-room as airily as if the weather was always paradisical. His sister came down to lunch looking better than she had in some days, was congratulated on her recovery, made some brilliant suggestions regarding the ornamentation of the rooms for the approaching festivities, and made, as she always did, the power of her talent felt, whatever she said or suggested. ‘‘I am as jealous as I can be of Lillian Meredith,’’ said Bertha, ‘‘and I give you fair warning, that when I get to keeping house, I shall quarrel with you for the possession of your treasure. I should never have ventured to promise to marry if I had not supposed you could be coaxed to live with us, Miss Miller.’’ ‘‘Perhaps I can, in due time—that is, if you and Arthur do not quarrel. I could never exist under the same roof with a matrimonial couple who brought their differences to me to settle.’’ ‘‘If he is good, and mild, and always lets me have my own way, I shall not quarrel with him,’’ said Bertha. Lillian listened to the badinage without hearing it; she was waiting for the hour of the afternoon siesta, when she should have her opportunity of speaking to Miss Miller alone. It came at last, when the two again were in their chamber. ‘‘You were broken of your rest so much last night, Lily, you ought to take a long sleep this afternoon.’’ ‘‘I am going back home, you know, before dinner. I shall start as soon as the sun is a little lower. But O, Miss Miller, how can you think I can sleep until you have told me all?’’ ‘‘Told you all? ’’ ‘‘Yes,—where the box is—where you got the gold.’’ 346

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‘‘Where I got the gold? ’’ ‘‘And who it was that was taking it! Now that you know all, surely, this fearful mystery must come to the light. ‘‘What are you talking about, my child?’’ Each looked at the other in doubt and surprise. ‘‘Miss Miller, when you came back to this room, last night, your hand was full of bars of gold, precisely like those my father once showed me. You called me and told me that you knew the meaning of the figure eight!— that you had found the box, and brought those ingots in proof.’’ ‘‘Lily, I remember no more of it than as if it had never been.’’ ‘‘Then you can not lead me to the box!’’ cried Lillian, dismayed, overwhelmed with disappointment. ‘‘I can not, I remember nothing. Tell me all I said, please, my darling child, this moment.’’ Lillian recounted what had passed. ‘‘Did I not mention the name of the person whom I followed?’’ eagerly. ‘‘No, not once.’’ ‘‘Let me look at the ingots, Lily.’’ Lillian went to her bureau, lifted the laces she had hastily thrown over the gold, but the ingots were not where she had hidden them! ‘‘Some one has been here, and taken them,’’ she cried, as she hastily examined the drawer, taking out every article. Then she went to the next, although positive she had placed them in the upper drawer; so on, through the bureau, and every nook and corner, possible and impossible, as persons will, when they have lost things, in the vain hope that memory is at fault, and that they will ‘‘turn up’’ somewhere. But the ingots had disappeared utterly,—strangely as they had come, they had vanished still more strangely, and the two women could only look at each other with vague speculation in their faces.

chapter xx ‘‘Checkmate to Your King’’ ‘‘Perhaps you dreamed the whole matter,’’ suggested Miss Miller, as she and Lily stood at the window of the tower, looking over the broad landscape despondently. They had taken advantage of the quiet presiding over the house at the

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hour of the afternoon siesta, to ascend to the tower-room and search for anything which might prove a clue to what had happened the previous night. A more innocent looking place never was subjected to such close scrutiny. The plain, small, square room had no nook where a thimble could be hidden—at least, none such appeared to the eye. They raised the carpet, which Sophie had caused to be spread, looking for some trap-door, or board which had been cut to lift from some cavity between the floors; but nothing rewarded the examination. There were windows on three sides,— on the fourth hung the map of which we have spoken, against a plain, bare wall of common plaster laid directly upon the squared stones of which the tower was built. ‘‘You said, just before you awoke, that you were not certain whether it was up or down you ought to go.’’ ‘‘In the cellar, I suppose, under the coal,’’—the governess spoke lightly, to cover her chagrin. ‘‘Oh, what if you had come here alone, and fallen from this open window!’’ said Lillian, with a shudder, looking down at the green grass and graveled paths below. ‘‘I tell you, solemnly, that if I had, and had been dashed to death in an instant, I could ask for no happier fate.’’ ‘‘Why, my dear, dear Miss Miller, don’t speak in that manner! I thought I was very sad, and that I could never be happy again, when my dear father— when, you know,—how terrible it was!—and I am very wretched still, at times,—and have a great weight on my mind about—about poor cousin Joe. But, I can not say that I covet a death like that,—ah, no! you make me tremble when you speak and look so.’’ ‘‘The young can bear anything,’’ said the governess, drearily; ‘‘like the springing grass, they bend to rise again; but when it is ripe and brittle, once crushed, it rises no more.’’ ‘‘I know, dear friend, you loved poor papa, and you will never, never get over his dreadful death. Why should Fate ordain that he should meet that foolish, willful girl, who had not the heart, nor the sense to love him as he deserved! If he had come home unmarried, all would have been so different! The other thing might not have happened—and he would have been certain to—to—’’ ‘‘The other thing might not have happened—would not have happened,’’ said the governess, slowly; you are right, there, Lillian.’’ The subject, usually so carefully avoided, was too much for the selfpossession of the orphaned girl, who clung to her friend’s waist, and wept softly such tears as do good to those who shed them; but, the single icy drop on the lids of the older woman were of those which, pressed from the heart, leave it dry. 348

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‘‘I must go home,’’ said Lillian, when they had stood some time,—‘‘will you return with me, as Arthur wishes?’’ ‘‘I think not—at least, not to-night. I have promised Mrs. Chateaubriand; and I may not have another of these attacks in some time. Arthur is too easily fretted about his dear sister.’’ Was she speaking in sarcasm? Her companion looked up, but could not tell; she was half afraid of her governess, at times, such a change had lately come over her. ‘‘Well, I must call Inez, as I go down. She ought to go home with me. She is here too much, I think,—seeing we are not placed so as to return these hospitalities.’’ ‘‘Oh, she does not regard herself from that standpoint any longer. She is Don Miguel’s cousin, and if Sophie should be successful in her butterflyhunting, they will be relatives.’’ ‘‘The Don is not a butterfly, Miss Miller.’’ ‘‘Truly, I believe he is something a trifle better. I dwelt on his perfections, while there was any hope of your appreciating him. But I hardly think you will take Inez home with you. There she goes across the fields, in the direction of Gram’me Hooker’s.’’ ‘‘Alone, too.’’ ‘‘She is so benevolent that she is going to do the old woman a service, and her modesty prevents her bringing along her left hand to know what her right hand does.’’ ‘‘I do wonder what errand takes her there so frequently.’’ ‘‘Are you sure Mrs. Hooker is a conscientious woman?’’ ‘‘Quite; but why do you ask?’’ ‘‘Don’t puzzle your poor little tired brain about that, child. Come, we will go down, and I will walk with you a little on your way home. I need the air to get rid of those indolent anodynes.’’ The two walked along the quiet road, sweet from last night’s rain, across which long shadows were beginning to stretch. As they slowly sauntered towards the village, one of Mr. Chateaubriand’s buggies passed them, with Arthur Miller and his carpet-bag on the back seat. ‘‘I’m going to the five o’clock express,’’ he said, as the driver paused a moment at his bidding. ‘‘Will be back to-morrow at the same hour. Better stay with Miss Meredith to-night, Annie.’’ ‘‘I did not know you were to go down again before the twentieth.’’ ‘‘Oh, yes. I’ve not selected my wedding-present yet for the bride. That is a very important matter. I shall give to-morrow to its selection. Shall it be a diamond bracelet, Annie?’’ ‘‘Better suit your gifts to your means,’’ she said, coldly. ‘‘Precisely. I made a thousand dollars by a lucky stroke, the week before

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I came out. Would that be too much to expend on an article of so much importance?’’ ‘‘I advise you to be prudent,’’ was the response, and Arthur, laughing and brilliant, drove on, the envied of all who saw him. ‘‘It feels to me as if there was a storm in the air,’’ remarked Miss Miller, stopping in her walk, a little later, and looking about her with a wandering glance. ‘‘We had the storm last night. The air, now, is like crystal, and the sky a cloudless blue.’’ ‘‘But I feel it, I tell you. Since my health is in this peculiar state I am a perfect barometer. My spirits have fallen a good many degrees in so many minutes. Something is going to happen. Perhaps there will be an accident on the railroad to-night.’’ ‘‘Oh, I often feel that way,—and nothing ever comes of it. Don’t go any farther with me, or you’ll lose your dinner.’’ The friends parted. Miss Miller returned to Meredith Place, ate her dinner in the most hum-drum fashion; spent the evening in giving countenance to folly, as usual; retired to her room, and slept a dreamless sleep, from which she did not arise to midnight excursions. The next day her brother returned from the city, and was welcomed with delight by the affectionate and anxious darlings who knew what his errand had been. No storm had broken the serenity of the summer sky, and no rail had broken on the road to startle the world with an accident. Something had happened, nevertheless, during that brief trip, of great import to the most of that joyous company. They did not perceive it now, however,—least of all was it suspected by him whom it most concerned. That evening, when the bride-elect came to dinner she found a parcel under her napkin; she untied the little box, and brought to light a bracelet of diamonds and emeralds fit for a princess’ acceptance. ‘‘Allow me,’’ said Arthur, clasping it about the snowy wrist, and, as the lady pursued her dinner, the light of the jewels flashed little rainbows about her plate. ‘‘I declare, Inez, your eyes are as green as these emeralds,’’ exclaimed Bertha, as, trifling with her dessert, she chanced to look up at Mrs. Meredith, sitting opposite. ‘‘I supposed they were black,’’ answered Inez, dropping them. ‘‘You are blinded by what you have been looking at. No one, I dare say, would give as much for my eyes as for your emeralds.’’ ‘‘A mistake, I assure you, Mrs. Meredith,’’ simpered a youth, who, being selected to attend the third bridesmaid, had nothing to do in the meantime but to pay her compliments. ‘‘Tiffany has nothing at all to be compared with those starry orbs—’’ 350

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‘‘Hear, hear,’’ cried Don Miguel; ‘‘starry orbs! fine! Where did you find that rare and original comparison?’’ ‘‘In my head,’’ responded the youth, putting a spoonful of ice-cream in his mouth. ‘‘What a pity we are not all engaged,’’ remarked Sophie, pouting at Arthur, but not without a swift glance at Don Miguel. ‘‘I suppose it is the bridal presents and the new dresses that induce half of you to place yourselves in that enviable position,’’ said the Don. ‘‘Of course. The little god would kneel in vain, if he did not come with his hands full of jewels and ‘promises to pay.’ If he could not order a bouquet, select an ornament, and had no ear for opera music, he ought to be banished to the days of Phillis and Corydon.’’ ‘‘It is better to have a cousin than to be engaged,’’ said Inez, and, letting the white muslin of her flowing sleeve fall back from her brown, but smooth and exquisitely shaped arm, she betrayed a bracelet much finer than Bertha’s—a costly gift—which Don Miguel had brought with him, when he made his last declaration to Lillian, as a betrothal bond, if she should accept him. He was thinking, now, that one woman, at least, had withstood the temptations of wealth and ease, and her image arose before him all the more attractively, in contrast with these gay creatures who were telling the truth about themselves, with the prettiest air of being only in sport. ‘‘Oh, Inez,’’ cried Sophie, ‘‘you never showed us that before! You little darling, how becoming it is to your arm! I always told you your hand and arm were perfect.’’ The Don had been watching her to mark the impression made by the ornament; if she had shown envy or malice, he would have turned lightly from Sophie, as he had from so many other young ladies, but, her evident freedom from covetousness, her good nature in admiring Inez, and pleasure in the latter’s possession of the jewel, raised her many degrees in his respect. She was not Lillian; she was not his ideal; but, she was an amiable as well as a pretty girl, and he gave her a glance that had a thought in it, as he said: ‘‘Inez must not claim the bracelet forever. I told her it was only lent to her. I intend to imitate Mr. Miller in my final use of it.’’ ‘‘I may wear it until I get tired of it, before you claim it,’’ responded his cousin, while Sophie felt a glow in her heart and a blush on her cheek, she hardly knew why. Miss Miller leaned back in her chair and looked at Inez. She was thinking of the time when a certain handsome, ambitious, passionate woman, with an intellect kindled by communion with that of a man of genius, and a heart alive with the best love which such a man can draw forth, decked

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herself in velvet and jewels to welcome him home,—it hardly seemed to her as if that eager woman, with the flushed cheek and sparkling eye, was this self which sat here now, sallow, stony, and indifferent. She recalled the moment when the slender, dark-eyed Cuban girl had emerged from the stage and she heard Doctor Meredith introduce her as his wife. Oh, but she had reason to hate even more than she despised! Yet, as she sat and watched her, at the table, darting those looks at the bride-elect, which Bertha had declared were ‘‘green,’’ a cold fear of her crept through her contempt. It grew upon her that Inez held some secret power to injure, over which she exulted. Lillian had not, in describing the events of the night when she stayed with her, mentioned having found Inez in the lower hall, for the incident had been of so little importance to her as to pass out of her mind. Had she mentioned it to Miss Miller, the latter would have had some clue to the power held by the woman with whom her brother had trifled. ‘‘She is plotting mischief,’’ thought the governess. ‘‘Can it be possible that she knows what I know? There is not reticence enough in her to keep it one hour, should she have discovered it. It is more probable that she will stab him with the little poignard which I saw her raise on him once, than attempt a more complicated revenge. I can not stay here. I shall suffocate in the midst of these triflers. I believe I will go and see Mother Hooker.’’ Stealing from the dining-room without attracting particular attention, she threw a vail over her head and wandered off, in the growing twilight, through the garden, on into the field path which led through the woods to gram’me’s. Her head was hot; the cool air felt grateful to her burning face; she walked rapidly on into the dim woods, where she could hardly track her way through the murmurous shadows. The secret she carried, which pressed ever heavier into her heart, was almost unbearable this evening. Those gay and thoughtless friends whom she had left behind were to her like children playing on the brink of a precipice; and, as the awful danger arose vividly before her imagination, she shrieked aloud. A thousand piercing echoes answered her, and she screamed again, shrilly and long. ‘‘It is a relief,—I am afraid of insanity, some days,’’ she muttered. ‘‘Who would think me deficient in courage? They call me strong-minded, a natural leader,—yet here I shrink like the veriest coward. If I had confronted the danger at first, seized it by the throat, choked, silenced it, I should not now be overmastered. Every day I concede and concede, while the wrong grows. Oh, Arthur! oh, Lillian! I am afraid now that a hand less kind and more just than mine has taken the rein and is driving me on to ruin!’’ She sat a little while on a log beside the path, listening to the last twittering notes of sleepy birds, the mournful cry of the whippoorwill which had answered her wild scream, and the rustle of the tall trees moving lightly in 352

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the western wind; then resumed her walk, urged by the fear that gram’me would be in bed if she delayed her call any later. Gram’me was studying out her evening chapter of the New Testament by the light of a tallow dip, when Miss Miller surprised her by appearing in the open door. ‘‘Is it too late for callers? It was so warm in the house I wanted to get out of it; and as I strolled this way I made up my mind I would come and ask you a question which I have wanted answered for some time.’’ ‘‘Take a chair, Miss Miller. I’m glad to see you, but I reckon you’d better be keerful about trampin’ about alone arter dark. I’m nigh about sartin I heerd a painter screech in them woods just a leetle while ago,—though they do say there’s been none seen in these parts for twenty year.’’ ‘‘Thank you; I’ll sit on the door-step, gram’me. I dare say it was a screech-owl which disturbed you. There are no panthers in Meredith wood—unless they be human panthers,’’ sotto voce. ‘‘Them screech-owls do make a drefful noise; they sound awful lonesome in the woods at night. It may be. It may be. But you ain’t so timid as most women-folks, Miss Miller. ’Pears to me you don’t look well lately; better let me fix you up some herb-tea or bitters, hadn’t ye?’’ ‘‘You can’t medicine to a mind diseased, gram’me,’’ replied the lady, sadly. ‘‘Nay, that’s so. What is it you want me to tell you that you don’t know better’n I, Miss Miller?’’ ‘‘The object of Mrs. Meredith’s visits to you.’’ ‘‘Oho! Well, sartain, they’re skasely wuth inquirin’ into,’’ and gram’me laughed. ‘‘It’s nothing very bad, if you laugh about it.’’ ‘‘That’s so, child; you’re right. She’ll never do any harm, that little simpleton won’t—she’s too foolish. I don’t know as I ought to tell on her, though, as she’s come to me in confidence.’’ ‘‘If you think it will do no harm, and that you are justified in keeping it, I shall ask no more.’’ ‘‘O land! I reckon it makes no difference, one way or t’other. She jest comes to git me to make love-powders for your brother, and I humor her, to keep her from going to the ’pothecary’s, or somewhere, where she’ll make herself ridiculous.’’ ‘‘I surmised as much, gram’me, and I’m obliged to you for being so discreet with her. She has her foreign ways, and we must humor them, I suppose. Her cousin will soon take her off with him, which will be a relief to us. Did she ever ask you for anything really dangerous?’’ Mother Hooker hesitated; her eyes fell before the keen glance fixed upon her, but she raised them again as she said:

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‘‘If she had, you might know she wouldn’t git it here,—nor I wouldn’t tell of her, neither, but jest lectur’ her on her sin an’ danger. She’s most like the heathen, that poor child is, and I tell you I’ve preached to her powerful.’’ Miss Miller was just as well satisfied with this answer as if it had been more explicit. After a little more chat on the old woman’s wants and ailments, she bade her good-night, and returned upon her lonesome route. The faint glimmer of a moon in its first quarter straggled through the wood, making weird shadows across the path, but marking it so that she had small difficulty in finding her way back. She was no coward, as far as being out alone was concerned, and crossed the field as carelessly as if it had been broad daylight. Entering by that back gate, through which so many of my adventures had been made the previous summer, she strolled on to the arbor, and still feeling dislike to the prospect of company, she turned aside and entered. As she did so she was startled, almost into an exclamation; but her long habit of self-control stood her in good stead, and she said nothing. The low beams of the sinking moon shone almost horizontally into the arbor against the face of a man sitting there as if waiting for somebody. The lady could see him with sufficient clearness to know that he was a stranger. Before she could decide whether to turn away or to accost him, he arose, saying— ‘‘I guess it’s all right, ma’am. We’re on the right track now, certainly. I followed him all day yesterday, as you advised, and I found out what you said I would.’’ ‘‘Found out what?’’ Miss Miller’s lips trembled, but she steadied her voice and tried to disguise it; the other, however, immediately detected his mistake. ‘‘Beg your pardon, ma’am,’’ said he; ‘‘I mistook you for the housekeeper. There’s a fellow been stealing the berries and vegetables, and she set me on to watching him.’’ With that he passed by her, and went whistling on over the lawn, to the front gate, and out upon the road. Miss Miller would have taken his story for granted, but as she went up the rear steps to the porch, she met Inez coming down, and knowing how superstitious and timid she was, wondered at her going out alone. ‘‘Would you like company?’’ asked the governess. ‘‘Oh no, thank you. I’m only going for a rose-bud for my hair. Mr. Beckwith has stolen the one I was wearing,’’ and she hurried on towards the rose-bushes beyond which stood the arbor. Miss Miller then decided to go to the housekeeper with an account of the stranger in the garden. ‘‘He’s a thief himself, you may be sure,’’ said that personage, when she had told her story. ‘‘I never authorized nobody to watch for thieves. It’s 354

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like he’s after the fruit himself; or worse—mebbe he’s a burglar, a studyin’ of the sitiwation. I’m goin’ to send Mick out to hunt him off the place, or I shan’t close an eye this night. Like as not he’s from the city, or he’s come as a body-guard over that silver which mistress was so foolish as to send for. I told her it wouldn’t be safe in this country place, where there isn’t a p’liceman to save your life.’’ ‘‘Don’t worry too much; he will not be apt to come back to-night, especially if he sees Mick hunting him out with a lantern. He will naturally suppose that we are on our guard. I think, if I were in your place, I would not disturb the family with it; there is probably not much in it, and if Mick goes out and looks about the place, and you fasten up carefully, it will be all that is necessary.’’ ‘‘All right,’’ assented the housekeeper, but with the lady who gave the advice it was not all right. When she entered the parlors Inez was there flirting with Mr. Beckwith, who was to be one of the groomsmen; Arthur and Bertha were at the piano, Sophie and Don Miguel walking up and down the room, arm-inarm, Mr. and Mrs. Chateaubriand playing chess;—the terrors which beset her, and which gave her the haunted, nervous, expectant look, becoming habitual to her, did not come with her in full force into this cheerful company. Yet she knew they were there, like wolves at the door, ready to spring upon her the moment she went forth, and she was almost surprised that every one was not as aware of their ugly existence as she was. She gazed at the festal groups about her as one does at a fairy spectacle which he knows will soon dissolve. ‘‘Oh you are here, are you?’’ said the master of the house, looking up as she sighed. ‘‘I’ve been wanting you to play a game with me. You understand chess much better than Mrs. Chateaubriand.’’ ‘‘Yes, please do take my place, Miss Miller. The idea of playing chess with the thermometer at ninety!’’—the lady arose from the table, and dropped languidly into an arm-chair. ‘‘One game, then, Mr. Chateaubriand,’’ said Miss Miller, ‘‘and let it decide my fate!’’ ‘‘In what way, madame? Has any one been proposing for, or disposing of, you? If so, you must play cautiously. It won’t do to be reckless in these matters.’’ ‘‘No, it will not. I shall play my best.’’ She did not smile; on the contrary, she seemed very much in earnest, and the host, who was distinguished for his skill, and a great lover of the game, set to work to arrange the men, with a keen enjoyment in the consciousness that he was to have an opponent worthy of his steel. The delicate lady of the mansion grew tired of watching the board, fell

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asleep, woke up, and excused herself from the parlors, with a warning to her daughters to be in their beds by eleven o’clock. Eleven o’clcok came, and the gentlemen went away, the young ladies retired, laughing at papa and Miss Miller, still bent over their first game— one wary, watchful, designing—the other obstinate, fighting long on the edge of every lost field. The house had been long silent when the old clock struck twelve, and the gentleman, rising from his seat, cried with a smile— ‘‘Checkmate to your king, Miss Miller!’’

chapter xxi A Woman’s Revenge The day preceding that appointed for the wedding was an extremely busy one at Meredith Place. No matter how much time has been taken to prepare, or how perfect the arrangements may be supposed to have been made, at the last hour an hundred unexpected things are to be done. The bride-elect alone remained throned in royal indolence, while all her subjects were doing something in her honor. She did not intend to fatigue herself or discompose herself; all the pretty trifles of the toilet had been tried, pronounced upon, and disposed of; the wedding dress and vail had been donned for a private rehearsal and doffed until the arrival of the auspicious hour; her trunks had been packed by her maid, under the direction of Miss Miller; now, all she had to do, was to sit and observe, while a troop of gay girls decorated the long parlor, the hall and library, and the diningroom, with such an aggregation of flowers that one would have supposed a county, at least, had been rifled of its bloom to adorn this one old mansion. Only one apartment escaped the general garlanding; the laboratory remained, as usual, closed, gloomy, and silent. The abundance of room in the house was such as to have prevented any necessity for putting the laboratory to use, and it had been allowed to remain as it had stood since Dr. Meredith’s death. The longer it was avoided and abandoned, the more it took upon itself a weird and repelling air, that is, to strangers; while, to Lillian, it was so eloquent of the very life and spirit of her murdered father, that she never yet had felt like bearing the pain and shock of a visit to it. It had been a great comfort to her that the present tenants had allowed it to remain as he had left it; she knew that, when permanent occupants 356

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bought or took the place, that room would be the first to call for renovation and repair, and she shrank from the desecration, far away though it might be, as she would have shrunk from the idea of disturbance to his grave. Only Miss Miller occasionally spent an hour there alone, coming away from these visits with the compressed lips, the weary, jaded air of one who grieves without a right, and expects no sympathy. In the midst of the joyous clamor of this busy day, she turned the key which stood always in the lock, and passed out of the light and perfume and sounds of merry voices, into the chill of this dim, deserted region. Throwing herself into the leather-covered armchair which had been the Doctor’s favorite seat, she leaned her forehead on her hand, sitting so motionless and silent, that she was like a part of the neglected furniture. She was thinking of many things, but at the end of all her thoughts chimed in the refrain—‘‘one day more, and the worst will be over!’’ As she sat there, muttering this to herself, the door very softly unclosed—it made no more noise in opening than as if its hinges were always kept carefully oiled—and Mrs. Meredith entered. At first she did not see the occupant of the arm-chair, but stole softly forward towards the shelf containing the more dangerous drugs and chemicals which it had been the Doctor’s habit to keep in one quarter under the general head of ‘‘Poisons,’’ which appeared in a printed label over the shelf. Her observer would have given a year of her own life to have been invisible for the next five minutes; and she waited in breathless suspense while Inez passed on down the other side of the darkened room. The intruder looked pale in the shadowy atmosphere, and her lids were drawn together, so that her glittering eyes emitted only a single line of light; her movements were cat-like, velvety; she reached the shelf, unaware of the observation she was under, and reaching up, took down and examined one after another of the glass-stoppered bottles which held various degress of danger and death. ‘‘If I could read in some book just how they acted, I should run less risk,’’ she murmured, in her own language, which she always used when much excited; her watcher was familiar with it, however, and comprehended what was said. Turning, with a perplexed air, as if to look for a treatise on the subject before her, Mrs. Meredith met the soul-piercing gaze which was fixed upon her, and the bottle in her hand fell, with a crash, to the floor. ‘‘I did not see you,—how you frighten me.’’ ‘‘Do I? What are you looking for, Mrs. Meredith?—perhaps I can assist you.’’ ‘‘Oh, no! I don’t think you can. I was not looking for anything in particular,—something—I don’t know what! Sophie told me that arsenic would improve my complexion, and I was wondering if there might be any

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amongst this trash. Not that I really thought of taking any, but just out of curiosity, you know. She says she knows a beautiful woman who takes it regularly.’’ Inez had recovered her self-possession, early, and was talking smoothly, though pale, and with fingers which trembled a little as she stooped to pick up the broken glass. ‘‘Don’t!’’ cried Miss Miller, springing to her side—‘‘don’t touch the glass, it may be injurious. What is it you have broken?’’ ‘‘I don’t know. It’s eating holes in my dress. My pretty grenadine is ruined! I’m so sorry! What do you think it is?’’ ‘‘Nothing worse than elixir vitriol, this time, I believe.’’ ‘‘What a pity, to spoil my dress! But you frightened me so! I did not expect to see anybody in this dusty old place.’’ ‘‘Nor I.’’ Inez looked about, as if to discover the other’s errand. ‘‘I did not come here for beauty-lotions,’’ said Miss Miller, with a cold smile. ‘‘I came here because I was tired of so much confusion, and desired to be alone.’’ ‘‘Oh! I thought perhaps you came for medicine. I knew you were not well. I came here once for laudanum, when my tooth ached. I happened to remember where the Doctor kept it.’’ ‘‘The Doctor!’’ repeated the governess, mechanically. She did not know why the words came from her lips, but they were forced out, even as her deep-set, steady eyes were fastened upon those of the widow, who shuddered at the solemn voice, and tried to look away and could not. ‘‘Yes, yes!’’ said Inez, pettishly, when the momentary spell had dissolved, ‘‘he was in here so much, you know. It was tiresome.’’ ‘‘Was it?’’ ‘‘To have one’s husband always about something one could not understand—yes! That was my misfortune. I should not have married as I did’’— half crying,—‘‘if it had not been for papa’s death, and such unpleasant circumstances. I ought not to have married such a learned, middle-aged man,—if I had had a chance to make a suitable choice; but I could do nothing else. You must own that I could do nothing else, under the circumstances?’’—her words running on unwittingly, drawn out by the power of the steady eyes which she feared and dreaded, but could not rid herself of. ‘‘I should have chosen a younger man, fashionable, you know, fond of society, who would have taken me out.’’ ‘‘The Doctor would have done that; he would have dressed you superbly, petted you as no younger man would have done. You were in too great haste; too impatient. You should have waited.’’ ‘‘Waited? He died, did he not, Miss Miller? I am not to blame for that. I wish I had been more fond of him—that I—that he had not gone so soon. 358

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Doubtless I should have grown attached to him, and, as you say, he would have petted me, let me do as I pleased. Now, no one loves me! Miguel is good to me, but he is only my cousin. Oh, I wish the Doctor were alive!’’ She dropped into a chair and began to sob. The other regarded her, as she sat there with her face covered, with a scorn too great for expression. She could not pity Inez, knowing that she loved, with all the passion of her selfish nature, her brother, who was about to marry a woman as beautiful, and also rich. She did not believe that grief for the dead moved those easy-flowing tears, but jealousy of the living. She might have compassionated even the errors of one so young and untrained, but when she would have pitied, horror froze all softer emotion. The indifference, the heartless apathy which the widow felt in a death which became to her only as a door which released her to the liberty of seeking better things, curdled the blood of this other woman who had made herself the soul-mate of the murdered man. ‘‘What shall I do with the broken glass?’’ asked Inez, presently ceasing to sob, and looking for help even in this trivial difficulty. ‘‘I would rather it should not be known that I was in here.’’ ‘‘I will sweep up the fragments; leave them; it is not safe for you to meddle with such things.’’ ‘‘But how long do you intend remaining in this gloomy place?’’ asked Inez, uneasily. ‘‘I don’t see what you can possibly have to do here; and I heard them asking for you before I came in.’’ ‘‘The world will go on, if I absent myself a little while.’’ ‘‘No, but about Lillian’s dress. She insists on the lily-of-the-valley wreaths, because she is in mourning, and wishes to wear nothing but pure white. We want her to wear blue; else she will look too bride-like. Bertha will be white enough for all.’’ ‘‘I will see to it, in time.’’ ‘‘Do, Miss Miller. It would be a great pity if anything were neglected. The event of tomorrow ought to be a perfect success. Arthur and Bertha are quite sure it will be; so that any humble prophecies of mine would be impertinent.’’ ‘‘Why should you prophesy anything ill! Stop a moment,’’ cried Miss Miller, as the other was going away. She, herself, had felt ill at ease, anxious almost to wildness—she had brooded over coming danger—she had calculated chances—but what did Inez know of these things? Was it the consciousness of her own unhappy secret which gave to the other’s tone a meaning which it did not possess? Inez came back playing with the bracelet on her arm. ‘‘All is going on smoothly, the weather promises beautifully,—do you know of any reason why to-morrow should not be all that we expect of it?’’

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Inez laughed, moving away again. There was malice, and more, in the light laugh; Miss Miller arose, her dark face flushing redly— ‘‘Stay a moment, Mrs. Meredith. I want to advise you against the use of cosmetics,—especially such dangerous ones. It was fortunate that I was here, to-day, to prevent your doing anything so rash. Let me warn you not to attempt it.’’ ‘‘I did not think of it. You are mistaken if you suppose I need such uncertain aids. I dare say to-morrow will be a beautiful day. I, for one, expect to enjoy myself,’’ and humming ‘‘Gentle Zitella,’’ she slipped away. ‘‘An enemy,’’ said the governess, ‘‘who will attack by surprise. But I must not sit here, fearing and trembling. Work, work, is the best medicine for feverish spirits.’’ A breath of sweetness was wafted towards her as she came out of the dark room whose damp air was like that of a charnel-house in comparison with the warmth and redolence of perfume. The wide old hall was like a fairy bower. The ancient clock stood, with smiling face, the center of a pyramid of flowers. She glanced up at it,—‘‘three o’clock. Will all be as fair and promising at this hour one day hence?’’ Lillian came out of the parlor and laughingly drew her in, to criticise or admire the effect, according to the voice of her conscience. Sunlight, flowers, gayety everywhere! Even Lily was more like her girlish, radiant self, than she had been for fourteen months,—so absorbed in the hopes and pleasures of others as to forget, or lay aside, her habitually pensive air. She, with the rest of the bridal party, were to remain at Meredith Place over night, so as to be ready for the duties of the morning. Several guests were to arrive by the evening train. It was arranged for the wedding to take place at eleven o’clock, in the village church; then a breakfast at noon; the newly married pair to take the afternoon train to the city, from whence they would proceed, at their leisure, upon the wedding tour. ‘‘Everything is faultless,’’ pronounced the judge; ‘‘now, young ladies, away to your rooms for an hour’s rest, then dress, for tea and company. Lily, Sophie, Inez, you must come with me,—your rooms have been appropriated to guests,’’ and she martialed her graceful forces as gayly as if no heavier care pressed on her mind. The evening was a festival one—fit prelude to the happier expected day. A large number of guests sat down to the sumptuous supper; there was music and dancing, afterwards, in the parlor, while Bertha walked back and forth on the moonlit porch, listening to the whispers of the man whose wife she was so soon to be, and Inez, in the pauses of the waltz, stood in the rose-draped window, watching them with a dull burning glow at her heart that lighted her eyes with an unpleasant brightness. 360

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‘‘Bertha, you are magnificent, standing thus, flooded by showers of moonlight. If you look half as beautiful to-morrow, I shall behave like a wild man.’’ ‘‘The hot sun will not be as becoming to me as this silvery light, I dare say. We ought to have been married at this hour, on this porch, by the light of the moon. It would have been so romantic!’’ ‘‘Why not? It is not too late. Shall we?’’ ‘‘Where is the minister? We shall certainly be compelled to wait for him, and he will not be here until ten to-morrow.’’ ‘‘How provoking!’’ ‘‘And then the disappointed Hamptonites, and the superfluous elegance of the dress, and the wedding breakfast, and all that! I’m not romantic enough to waste so much display and expense.’’ ‘‘I rather like a grand wedding myself,’’ said Arthur; ‘‘they’ll describe it in the papers, you see. But really, Bertha, you are looking your handsomest. There will not be such a woman at the Springs, I’ll wager.’’ ‘‘Thank you!’’ ‘‘Mrs. Meredith is beautiful; but you quite excel her. She’s too petite.’’ ‘‘In fortune as well as in figure,’’ exclaimed Inez, laughing, as she stepped through the window. ‘‘Alas! what a hard fate is mine. But your mother says we must all retire to rest in due season. It is now approaching midnight, and she has spoken the word.’’ ‘‘Yes, we must, indeed, be prudent,’’ said Arthur. ‘‘Is it so late? I have two or three letters to write yet, to-night, and some articles to pack. Dear Bertha, I must say good-bye until to-morrow.’’ He kissed her, bowed to Inez, to the friends in the parlor, and ran lightly up to his room. This was the signal for retiring. All were weary, and glad to seek their apartments. In less than an hour profound silence reigned where mirth and music so lately ruled. ‘‘Come to bed,’’ called Miss Miller, as the three girls who shared her room continued to chatter and laugh, as girls will, about the waning light of their bed-room candle. ‘‘Yes, yes, I’m in bed now,’’ answered Sophie, creeping on to the sofa, which was to be her improvised couch. Inez had a cot-bed put up on the other side of the large chamber. ‘‘Are you through with the light, Lily?’’ ‘‘Yes,—will you put it out?’’ ‘‘Certainly.’’ The next instant the room was in darkness; Inez pulled the shade to keep out the too bright light of the moon, opened while seeming to close the door which led into the corridor, slipt into bed, and apparently sank to sleep, for she was quiet at once.

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However, when the others had really fallen into slumber, she crept out, put on her dress and shoes, went noiselessly down stairs, to the laboratory door, listened there some time, and then, proceeding to the back door, admitted three men, officers of the law. ‘‘It is all right,’’ she whispered. ‘‘Station yourselves at the door of this room, and please make no noise, until I summon Mr. Chateaubriand. Is there a guard at the window I mentioned?’’ ‘‘Yes’m. Two men there, armed with guns.’’ ‘‘I do not want him to escape; that is why I have arranged this matter so cautiously. You get the proof of the crime and the criminal at once, don’t you see?’’ ‘‘Mighty clever, for a woman,’’ chuckled one of the constables. ‘‘Hush! I will not be five minutes in bringing the master of the house.’’ The lady, as she went, lighted the hall-lamp and the bracket-lights on the stair-case, making everything as bright as possible; the men stooped, listening at the darkened key-hole, and hearing, with that fine tingling which goes to the fingers’-ends when detecting the nature of the sound, the soft roar of the blow-pipe, and the stirring of a person in the laboratory. ‘‘For heaven’s sake, my dear madam, what do you want of me?’’ queried Mr. Chateaubriand, coming out into the upper hall, dressed, but in a state of dazed astonishment, shortly after Mrs. Meredith had called him. She had sent the maid to the doors of several of the gentlemen, and also to Miss Miller’s, with word to dress and come out, as there was danger impending. Most of the guests thought some part of the house might be on fire, and obeyed the summons with alacrity. All pressed together down the staircase, in confusion, but not making any great outcry. ‘‘What is it?’’ again queried Mr. Chateaubriand,—‘‘robbers in the house?’’—as he caught sight of the three men surrounding the door of the laboratory. ‘‘I wish to introduce you to your son-in-law in a new character,’’ and Inez, stepping in front of the sheriff and his aids, threw open the door. All pushed forward into the room, not knowing what to expect—all, save the trio on guard at the door, who merely closed up together, forming a dark barrier. At the moment in which the interior was disclosed by the action of Inez, a man was bending in front of the furnace, looking within at a crucible whose contents he was testing; the glow, flameless, but intense, to which the fire had been urged by the assistance of a blow-pipe, revealed the outline of his figure with even more distinctness than daylight could have done; so absorbed was he in his occupation that nothing had arrested his attention, of all the whisperings and footsteps, until the noiseless hinges 362

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moved and the company pressed into the room. Even then he did not perceive them, until he turned to go to the table where a small lamp was burning, beside which lay some articles whose meaning was not at once fully comprehended by those who observed them. Then, and not till then, the busy worker became aware of the fatal position in which he was placed— saw the crowd which filled the lower end of the room, the many eyes of those who had been his friends fixed upon him with varying expressions of grief, anger, and amazement. It was the bridegroom of the morrow who thus confronted them, dumb, and after the first startled movement, quite still. ‘‘Arthur!’’ cried Bertha, pushing through the little crowd at the door, and making her appearance, with a dressing-gown thrown over her night attire, her unbound hair flying,—she had heard the alarm, and thought, like others, that Meredith Place was on fire. When she saw her affianced standing by the furnace, like one at bay, she stopped, with that one cry, and hung back. ‘‘What is the meaning of all this?’’ again demanded the master of the house. ‘‘I can not say that I understand it. If Mr. Miller wishes to pursue his chemical experiments at this unseasonable hour, why should any trouble themselves to interfere with him. Arthur, for God’s sake, what are you about?’’ There were two, among the surprised group, besides Mrs. Meredith, who needed no explanation, after the first glance—Lillian and Miss Miller. The latter leaned against the wall, her face, pale with shame and despair, dropped into her hands, while Lillian clung to her, beginning to cry. But as soon as a soft, mocking voice began to speak, silvery-clear and exulting, the governess raised her head and fixed her eyes on the speaker: ‘‘I will tell you, Mr. Chateaubriand. He is coining the gold which was stolen at the time of my husband’s death—coining it into money, by midnight toil, to spend it at other times, in keeping up those appearances which deceived you and your daughter into believing him a young man rising into wealth. He has made money, indeed! literally made it, from the gold of the orphan and widow, and on the strength of this robbery, has ingratiated himself into the affections of your family. I have suspected him for some months, and been positive of his guilt for some weeks. I discovered the dies and who it was that used them, some time ago; but I have failed to trace him to the fountain from which he obtains his supplies— the box which disappeared at the time of the murder. ‘‘Two of these officers have followed him continually the last month, ascertaining that the money he spends is always gold, of the coinage of 1847, as you will find on these dies. He gave a thousand dollars, the other

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day, for a bauble for his bride—a munificence she will appreciate when she knows that it was Lillian’s gold and mine, which paid for it.’’ The stinging clearness of the voice, with its soft foreign accent, made every word more impressive, and as she ceased for a moment, her triumphant glance swept the circle, falling away from the fixed gaze of the unhappy sister to rest on the sinking lids of the brother. ‘‘If you knew this, why did you not mention it before, Mrs. Meredith?’’ ‘‘Well, sir, I should be very foolish to make a charge before I could substantiate it. I desired my proofs to be absolute. I will not deny that I had also some personal feeling in the matter. Mr. Miller sought my hand before he did your daughter’s; but finding that he could enjoy my wealth without the burden of its owner, he concluded to make it available in securing him the prestige of an alliance with your family, as well as a second fortune. My Spanish blood rebelled at this treatment, and I acknowledge that I enjoyed the prospect of his humiliation. ‘‘But my malice does not reach to your family, sir. I was willing and anxious to save Miss Chateaubriand the mortification of becoming the wife of a robber and—no! I will not say the other word! I have no positive proof that that crime is to be charged to him. I only say that these circumstances warrant us in entertaining a suspicion. Who, but the man who knows where that box is secreted, and who has constantly used its contents, since they came into his possession—who else can be the—’’ ‘‘Don’t speak that word, Mrs. Meredith,’’ interrupted the governess, harshly, while Lillian cried out as if struck. ‘‘Aye!’’ continued Inez, turning towards Miss Miller, and growing more excited, ‘‘she knew of his guilt. She also should be arrested as an accessory.’’ ‘‘Did you?’’ asked Lillian’s mute eyes, as well as the cold voice of Mr. Chateaubriand. ‘‘Yes,’’ said the governess, standing erect and speaking with the courage of which nothing had ever deprived her, except her fear and love for another,—‘‘I have known it for some time. God knows I have not been an accomplice. It has broken my heart. Friends, you have seen me wasting before your eyes, in the struggle between duty, and love for this erring brother, who is like a child to me. I have been very ambitious for him,— the desire to see him do well has been the dearest wish of my heart. When I found that he was sinning—robbing my poor child here,’’ turning to Lily, ‘‘of her patrimony, I could not bring myself to expose him, for fear he would be accused of a still more terrible crime, of which I know he is innocent. I have said to myself, I will wait,—wait until he is married,—then I will compel him to return, by degrees, as he can, all the money of others which he has spent. By that time he will be so well established in business that he can do it without injury to himself or others. O, I know I have been 364

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weak—a coward—done wrong. But I could not make up my mind to ruin my brother.’’ ‘‘Dear Miss Miller,’’ spoke Lily, caressingly, ‘‘if others could excuse you as I do. I don’t care for the miserable gold. Oh, Inez, how could you be so cruel to all of us?’’ ‘‘Why not keep this a secret?’’ pleaded Bertha, looking pitifully at one and another. ‘‘If he can restore the money, there will be no harm done. It will be so mortifying, to me, to you, papa! Let him leave the country, if he wishes. I will give up the foolish trinkets he wasted on me, and make good to Mrs. Meredith her losses. Anything to save this disgrace!’’ For the first time, Arthur raised his eyes, looking at the beautiful girl who was to have been his bride, and from her to her father, to note the effect of this appeal. ‘‘O, do let it be so,’’ cried Lillian, ‘‘for my friend’s sake.’’ ‘‘Never!’’ said Inez. ‘‘You have had your triumph, Bertha, and I will have mine. And then—a murderer! How dare you?’’ ‘‘It is our duty to arrest him,’’ interposed the sheriff, and stepping within, leaving his two men to guard the door, he advanced to lay his hand on the shoulder of his prisoner. With a bound like that of a panther Arthur sprang to the window, which it chanced his sister had raised to free the room from the odor of the acid which Inez had spilled. The sash was up, but the shutters were closed, as usual,—with one blow of his fist he sent them flying, and leaped through the opening to the ground beneath. So quickly was the feat accomplished that the two men on guard beneath had no time for thought or action, before the flying man was on his feet again, and away, down the garden with the speed of a deer. ‘‘Fire!’’ shouted the sheriff, leaning from the window, perceiving that the fugitive was otherwise certain of present escape. One of the men raised his musket and aimed it at the dark figure flitting from bush to tree, under the tell-tale light of the calm moon, a sharp report rang upon the perfumed silence of the summer night, the flying figure leaped, stumbled, and fell. ‘‘He’s hit,’’ muttered the officer, looking back upon the pale faces of the now hushed group; ‘‘it’s bad, but couldn’t be helped! When a fellow runs, he must take the chances.’’ He and his aids went out, followed by Mr. Chateaubriand and two or three gentlemen. In five minutes the master of the house returned and whispered to his wife: ‘‘Take Bertha up stairs with you. She must not see this!’’ They carried the bride-elect up stairs, shrieking hysterically, not so much from the agony of her bereavement as the terrible shock to and sud-

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den revulsion of feeling. No one thought particularly of the sister, except Lillian, who still clung to her hand, and tried to persuade her to go up stairs. Then the heavy shambling feet of the men were heard outside, at the door, in the hall, and there in that bower which had been decked for his bridal, in the midst of all those arches and pyramids of bloom, they laid their burden down. The old clock, though half smothered in flowers, ticked as loudly, as gayly as ever—but the heart of the young man beat no more. ‘‘He is quite dead,’’ said the constable. Then the woman who had accused and betrayed him, realizing that her revenge had been too complete, threw herself beside the body with a wail which told her love even more loudly than her remorse. Impulsive, unreasoning, and unprincipled, she had triumphed over those of whom she was jealous, only to feel that she had wounded herself. Her moans and screams were such as to melt the stern hearts of men who already felt appalled at the too sudden punishment which had overtaken the erring young man. The guard who fired the fatal shot was walking back and forth out-ofdoors, endeavoring in vain to quiet his aching conscience by the whisper of duty. The scene in the hall became unendurable, and servants were ordered to carry Mrs. Meredith to her room, and forcibly detain her there. In the meantime, Miss Miller, who had fainted at the first cry that her brother was hurt, lay on the floor of the laboratory, her head pillowed in Lillian’s lap, looking almost as ghastly as the dead. Sophie’s maid was chafing her temples and hands, while Lillian, frightened to see her so long remain insensible, dreaded the moment when she should arouse to a full consciousness of what had happened. Thus the brief summer night brightened into dawn, and the sun arose upon the bridal day which but yesterday Arthur had gayly apostrophised in the words of Tennyson— ‘‘Move eastward, happy earth, and leave Yon orange sunset waning slow; From fringes of the faded eve, Oh, happy planet, eastward go! Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly born, Dip forward, under starry light, And move me to my marriage morn, And ’round again, to happy night.’’

The marriage morning had dawned, and his sun had set forever, in a darkness and a coldness far away from the ‘‘happy night’’ he had antici366

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pated. His was the crime and error of a weak and pleasure-loving nature. Others, beside his wretched sister, made many excuses for him, as he lay there, dead, in the midst of the garlands which had been wreathed for his wedding.

chapter xxii Conscience Makes Cowards of Us All The excitement following upon the frightful drama of the night set Hampton township wild. Alas! when one’s griefs or misfortunes are of a character which gives the public a right to make free with them! Trouble, under such circumstances, is far more unendurable than when it can be kept sacredly in the privacy of our own homes. Such was the tragedy which once before had filled Meredith Place with curious and whispering throngs, and which now again crowded it with inquisitive strangers. Mr. Chateaubriand soon gave orders to have the gates closed against all except those who had business there. A coroner’s jury was empaneled, and a verdict rendered of justifiable homicide by the hand of an officer in the execution of the law; then the doors were closed against all but friends, the signet of mourning placed upon them, and rumor left outside to go insane over her own conjectures. It was very natural that people should believe that the robber was also the murderer. It was at once decided that Arthur Miller had taken advantage of his sister’s position in the family, to rob Dr. Meredith, and make way with him. It must be borne in mind that Inez’ declaration that the doctor had himself secreted the treasure the night before his death, was known only to her friends; and even if the public had known it, it would be easy to surmise that Arthur, lingering about the place, had chanced to observe the doctor in the act, and had then and there resolved to murder him in order to enjoy the money with whose place of deposit he only would be acquainted. From this predicate, the world went on to assert that Miss Miller, if not equally guilty with her brother, of the murder, was an accessory to the robbery, and to loudly demand her arrest. At first, she heard nothing of this, from that dark chamber of the old house, where she lay in a stupor more painful to combat than the unreasoning and querulous ravings of Inez, or the silent tears of the bride. The Chateaubriands knew that a warrant was out for her arrest; and that the delay in serving it was owing to

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the compassion felt for one of her sex in her ill and helpless condition. As long as her friends would pledge themselves to guard her from escape, she should remain unmolested until sufficiently recovered to bear the change without detriment to her health. The haughty Chateaubriands, chafing at the unpleasant notoriety in which they had been involved, still conducted themselves with a propriety which came very near being Christian. They insisted that the funeral should take place from their house, and paid every possible honor to the departed, as if he had been, indeed, their son. If they felt that they had been deceived in and wronged by Miss Miller, they made no exposition of their feelings while she lay beneath their roof, stunned by the calamity which had crushed her. They resolved, as soon after the funeral as possible, to take Bertha away from scenes which hereafter could only be distressing to her; they would spend the remainder of the season in traveling with her. They would have liked much to invite Don Miguel to make one of their party; but if they did so, they must also invite Inez, and they had a distaste to her society, since her talent for melodrama had been so unpleasantly displayed. Bertha could not endure the sight of her; and, altogether, her position was not enviable. However, she did not seem to realize it; sensitiveness, of a delicate kind, was not one of her attributes; she clung to every one near her, complained, bewailed, and was hysterical, as inclination moved. The Don was very patient with her, though he could not conceal the contempt which mingled with his affection. His acquaintance with a woman of Lillian’s dignity of character had opened his eyes to the fact that all of her sex were not like his wayward cousin. He was anxious to remove Inez at once from the neighborhood; but his courtesy to the family prompted him to remain to the funeral, the preparations for which went forward speedily. Lillian spent her time beside Miss Miller’s bed. She had not a thought or word of complaint of one whom she loved and honored. She understood, now, all that had been mysterious about the scene at the laboratory door on the occasion of the broken arm; the governess had told her that she, too, as well as myself, was suspicious of a person, and had followed him to the place, not dreaming that I, also, was on the watch. It was her breath I had heard, her approach I had detected in the darkness, and which had sent thrills over me, as if a disembodied spirit had approached. She had waited, as I was waiting, and when the door unclosed, instead of striking down the transgressor, I had smitten her, and given him opportunity for escape. She would not explain this to me, because she would not criminate her brother. She had explained it to Lily, with the reservation of the guilty man’s name; and Lily had been so blind as never once to suspect Arthur. 368

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Looking back upon it now, Lillian could see how the sad secret had worn out the health and spirits of her friend. She did not doubt that Miss Miller intended the fullest restitution, as soon as she could bring it about without ruining her brother,—and she loved her all the more tenderly that her love for him had betrayed her into a weakness which she would not allow was a crime. Beyond this she hardly dared allow her thoughts to go. The great probability that Arthur had been the one who tore her father from his hold on life, continually forced itself upon her, and was as constantly resisted. Because Arthur was her friend’s brother, she did not like to admit the possibility,—yet some one had done the deed, and who else—who else could it be? All the first horror was brought back by the second tragedy which had grown out of it;—she was shaken, soul and body, and felt, if possible, a desolation greater than when her father was first taken away. Then she had Miss Miller, and her cousin Joe,—now, one had fled, unjustly accused,— the other lay prostrate, a burden, who had been so strong to bear. In the meantime, Hampton, too, had recalled memories of the poor cousin who had been driven ignominiously from its midst. A reaction set in, in my favor, and if one reflects upon the natural course of such a reaction, heightened by remorse at the consciousness of false accusations, he may estimate how high the tide of popular feeling now ran in my favor. Had I made my appearance at that crisis, doubtless I should have been overwhelmed with hand-shakings and love-feasts. The good Hamptonians felt very uneasy as they wondered into what possible despairs and dissipations they had driven a young man, whose worst fault, after all, was in having had a bad father, and who was, come to think of it, a most studious, retiring, harmless young fellow, who would not hurt a fly except in the way of surgical experiments. Some young ladies even recalled that I had given promise of being good-looking when my mustache had acquired body, and I got able to dress a little more fashionably. There was much regret, too, for the sake of Lillian Meredith, that the hiding-place of her fortune still remained a mystery. Whatever inroads Miller might have made upon it, with his reckless expenditures, doubtless a considerable portion remained. It did seem like a strange fatality, that, amid all the discoveries made—by Miss Miller, in her somnambulic state, by Mrs. Meredith, in ferreting out the habit of the young man of visiting the laboratory at midnight hours, the actual hiding-place of the box remained unrevealed. Lillian thought less about it, perhaps, than any one else; she had found that she could support herself; and steady employment seemed almost desirable, as forcing her to put aside the vail of morbid melancholy in which she was tempted to wrap herself. Mr. Chateaubriand considered it his duty to look more closely after her

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interests. With the consent and coöperation of Don Miguel, acting as Mrs. Meredith’s counsel, he at once instituted the most thorough investigation of the premises, in hopes of unearthing the treasure. Out-buildings and gardens, cellar and attic, underwent a probing which would have done credit to the French police. The result remained as unsatisfactory as ever. The people of Hampton resolved that Doctor Meredith’s bullion had become a myth, to be sought after, vainly and with infatuation, as several generations had sought after the buried riches of Captain Kidd. On the third day after the death the funeral took place. The flowers had not yet completely withered, which were gathered for the bridal; reversing the order of which Hamlet complained, the wedding banquet furnished forth the funeral baked meats; an immense concourse followed the body to the grave; the ceremonies were performed by the clergyman who was to have united the young couple; the groomsmen were the pall-bearers; the man who was sent to death— ‘‘With all his imperfections on his head,’’

was not denied the poor tribute of outward respect. None of the ladies of the family went to the cemetery. Inez plead and wept to be allowed to go; but Don Miguel had no idea of permitting her to get up a scene at the grave, for the edification of curious hundreds; his commands were imperative, and she reluctantly obeyed them. The chief mourner, the sister of the dead, still continued in that stupor which was so like unconsciousness, that Lillian, watching beside her, doubted if she knew that the day and hour of the burial had come and gone. On account of the intense heat of the day, the last rites were postponed until the sunset hour. When all was over, the pall-bearers, including Don Miguel and other friends who had remained to the funeral, gathered once more in the dim parlor of the old mansion. On the morrow, the most of them returned to New York, including the Don and Inez, who were to go to Canada to while away the time until it would be safe to re-visit Havana. Within a few days it was the purpose of the master of the house to leave Hampton. Although none of the company could be said to feel any violent sorrow for the death of Arthur Miller, and would doubtless be glad, in the morning, to shake off the gloom under which they had sat for the last three days, still there was a shadow on every face, and the most careless felt awed by the solemn events which had occurred in place of the festivities which they had anticipated. The day deepened into twilight, and the lights were lit in the long dining-room, when the party was summoned to supper. Sophie had insisted upon Lillian’s coming down and joining the family at this meal; and as her charge appeared to be sleeping, she con370

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sented. Inez also was present; she could rave, but not in solitude—solitude was the worst trial a nature like hers could bear, and she had gladly stolen down at the first summons, and placed herself by Don Miguel’s side. When the meal was about half through with, an apparition appeared at the door leading from the hall into the room. Inez sat near the head of the table, at the opposite side, so that her face was towards the door, and she was one of the first to perceive the intruder, who advanced slowly up the room. It was Miss Miller, in her night-dress, which was loosely trailing about her tall, commanding figure. Don Miguel, looking up, murmured involuntarily: ‘‘Lo, you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.’’ Indeed, none who beheld her had power to do otherwise; no one could have moved, nor made an attempt to prevent her, as she walked feebly up the room, her eyes, in which there was no speculation, wide open, her brow pale and beaded with drops of sweat, to which the dark tresses of her hair clung damply. Lillian saw at a glance that she had risen from her bed and sallied forth on one of her somnambulistic excursions; but she, like the others, sat powerless, fascinated by the expression of that deadalive face. Miss Miller did not carry a taper, like Lady Macbeth, but she bore a small salver, on which was a wine-glass filled with wine. Unerringly, but very slowly, she glided up the long apartment, around the head of the table, and down again, until she came to where Inez sat, when she placed the salver on the table before her, and, lifting the glass, presented it, with a sweet smile breaking most strangely over the marble countenance, and said, softly, in almost a whisper, but so that all present heard— ‘‘You look pale, mio caro sposa, you do, indeed. Don’t you think a glass of wine will do you good? ’’ Inez, pushing back her chair, arose, recoiling from the proffered glass. ‘‘I did not say that! I did not say that!’’ she stammered. ‘‘Our Spanish doctors always order port for your complaint; but I suppose you think yourself wiser, eh, my darling old doctor! ’’ continued the sleepwalker, still proferring the wine. ‘‘I tell you I did not say that! go away! go away!’’ screamed Inez. ‘‘Well, well! I will set it here, and you can drink it when you like,’’ went on the other, setting the glass on the salver. ‘‘What does this mean?’’ asked Don Miguel, sternly, grasping his cousin’s arm. Inez looked up at him piteously, and back at the white-robed phantom whose deep set eyes met hers. ‘‘Because I brought him wine,’’ she exclaimed, frantically, ‘‘is that any reason for suspecting that I put poison in it?’’

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Her loud voice had the effect to somewhat disturb the somnambulist, who rubbed her hand across her forehead with a perplexed air,—the observers waited breathlessly, believing her about to awaken, but her countenance took on again that half-vacant, half-spiritual pallor and radiance, as she fixed her gaze on Don Miguel, and murmured: ‘‘I heard the words, Arthur, as I was under the library window, pulling some roses. I never told of them, for, you know, she was such a baby. I could not believe my own ears,—besides, she might have brought him the wine and others might have poisoned it—don’t you see? and I would not be unjust—even to her! But now they say you are the murderer, brother,—I can’t bear that! I shall tell all— all! I shall accuse her! I shall point to her and say,—you did it! you did it!’’ and stretching out her arm, the speaker pointed with fixed finger, and an awful intense gaze at the shrinking and quivering girl, who cowered before the finger and the eyes, and fell on her knees, sobbing. ‘‘Don’t look at me so, Miss Miller, don’t! Indeed, I did not mean to kill him! I never dreamed that one drop—one little drop—would hurt him. Who could suppose it would? I only gave it to him for a charm—just to see—to try because—oh, what am I saying? You must remember how I screamed when I came in and found him dead,—you must acknowledge that I was surprised—horrified. I only meant to give him a drop a day, to see how it worked. Oh, what am I saying again? Miguel, cousin, you are not going to desert me? I don’t want to go to prison—to die! when I did not mean it,— when I only dropped one drop, or two, perhaps, for my hand trembled.’’ She looked about upon the company. Don Miguel had drawn away, and was gazing at her, with folded arms, and a look of horror,—the faces of all the others were as the faces of ghosts. Lillian had risen to her feet and stood with clasped hands. ‘‘Her fondness for you was not in your honor, Arthur,’’ continued the somnambulist, ‘‘you ought not to have been flattered by it. I have excused much in her, but any human being, not an idiot or insane, would not be justified in indulging such fancies,—and she a married woman, married to such a man! ’’ ‘‘I loved him the first time I saw him,’’ went on Inez, distractedly, ‘‘he was so much more suitable in years and tastes. But I did not mean to let him see it,—and I never meant to harm my husband, who was so good to me;’’ and here she began to shed alligator’s tears. ‘‘Wicked! incredible!’’ murmured the Don, stepping back, as she turned, on her knees, to him. ‘‘I’m not wicked, cousin! Indeed, I didn’t mean the worst. Oh! you won’t let the officers take me, will you? I wish to go way from here, back to Havana, with you, and be a better woman. I am too young and delicate to die—to have a rope put about my neck!’’ and she put up her little jeweled 372

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hand and felt of her slender throat, with a movement which would have been sufficiently pathetic could the spectators have rid themselves of the knowledge that they were gazing upon as heartless and selfish a woman as ever breathed. Even as it was, the influence of youth and beauty was powerful. She looked so childish, with her face upraised, and so graceful, and so lovely, in the abandonment of fear, it seemed impossible to credit her with her own confessions. Mr. Chateaubriand was the first to speak. ‘‘She is, indeed, too frail to be handed over to the law. I believe that she never meant to kill Dr. Meredith. It resulted from her lawless fancies and her ignorance. I do not know if I do right, but I am agreed, if the rest of you are, to allow Don Miguel to take her from the country, before this thing becomes known outside the walls.’’ For a moment no one responded. ‘‘If it were not for the disgrace,’’ said the Don, bitterly, ‘‘I would leave her to her fate. I hardly feel as if I wanted anything more to do with her,— certainly not to assume the responsibility of her future conduct.’’ ‘‘Take me to a convent,’’ pleaded Inez, ‘‘I believe I would rather live with the nuns, than to be hung, or to live in prison,’’ with a shudder. ‘‘So be it, then, if no resistance is made to your going. In a few hours there will be a train passing,—go, gather your effects. I shall be ready.’’ Inez rose and went out alone; none of the ladies offered to assist her. ‘‘Arthur,’’ continued the sleeper, ‘‘since you are buried, and since he sleeps there also, I believe I will make my bed to-night, in the grave-yard.’’ So saying, she resumed her slow walk, passing out of the room, followed by Lillian and Mrs. Chateaubriand; she would have gone out of doors, in her bare feet, had they not gently barred her way and led her back to her chamber. Scarcely had they seen her safely in bed when Don Miguel knocked at the door to bid them a gloomy adieu; he held Lily’s hand a moment with a nervous pressure, dropped it and turned away, with his emotions, whatever they were, unuttered. ‘‘Don’t trouble yourself to go to the cottage to-night,’’ he said, ‘‘I will see that she has what she needs,’’ and thus, without look or word, Lillian and Inez parted, and their ways thereafter led in widely-differing directions. When the night-express thundered in and out of Hampton, it bore her away whose coming had wrought such changes at Meredith Place; whose inmates shuddered and sighed as the echoes died away, at the thought of what she had been and done, and that they should probably never know more of one whose future promised so illy. ‘‘I am afraid I did wrong to allow her to escape from the grasp of the

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law,’’ said Mr. Chateaubriand, walking uneasily about the chamber, unable to sleep. ‘‘We did, I know; but who could have the heart to punish her?’’ responded his wife, shivering. ‘‘She seems to me, even yet, like an infant who lights a match and throws it down, innocent of the consequences. Nature seems to have denied her a conscience, while giving her that sweet face and childish manner. I can not realize it! I seem to have been dreaming a hideous dream.’’ ‘‘It is a night-mare from which I wish there was an awakening. Poor Don Miguel is cruelly punished in having such a relative thrust upon him. He seemed very much dejected when he went away,—and yet he was not harsh with her. I suppose he will bury her in some Spanish nunnery, and we shall never hear of her again. I propose that we keep silence until the warrant is served against Miss Miller, when we shall be obliged to declare what we know, in order to protect her. I shall not be sorry to get away from all this!’’ ‘‘Poor Lillian! that child’s courage is surprising,—I wish we could take her with us. I can not think contentedly of going away, leaving her so solitary. I would like to adopt her.’’ ‘‘My good little madame, so would I. She is a gem. But she will never consent. She has the pride of all the Merediths under her demure modesty. Good heaven! how she must feel this night! I can’t sleep, for thinking of it. I should think it would kill her. That scene would have shaken the nerves of the stoutest stranger. How awful the majesty of that accusing specter! Inez could not escape her. All the guilt which was written in her heart appeared upon her fair face under the flame of those penetrating eyes, as concealed writing comes out when exposed to the heart.’’ ‘‘I shall never forget it, to my dying day!’’ ‘‘None of us will, I think. Probably not twice for us will the curtain rise upon such a tragedy.’’ Nor for any others who witnessed that strange supper-table scene. None who were present but acted it over in dreams through many a haunted night thereafter,—shrinking as if themselves were doomed, when the slow finger of the sleep-walker pointed at the shrinking girl who trembled at her feet.

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chapter xxiii Come Home! Come Home! I sat in my little out-west office, looking out the open door, at the brightcolored leaves which dropped and loosened and dropped dreamily through the haze of the soft September day. I could see, also, the great river which rolled in front of the straggling village in which I had settled; there was a rude dock opposite my log shanty; a store and warehouse beside it, a few barrels and hogsheads on the dock, men fishing from the edge, a flat-boat in the distance,—all that men had done, primitive, rough; all that nature had done, beautiful, boundless. My prospects were good. All I had to do was to cook my own pork and cornmeal, and invest the sum and substance of my fees as a physician, beyond what was necessary to purchase these necessary articles, in real estate—the land which lay about the landing— the town-lots which ran, in a state of nature, boldly along the bank of the stream; all I had to do was to lay hold, by hook or crook, of a goodly number of these, and in due time, say ten, fifteen, or twenty years, my fortune would have made itself. I should be a millionaire. I sat thinking of it. The more I thought of it, the more brilliant appeared my future, the more gloomy I became. There was one thing which was making life intolerable to me. The name, chalked in red chalk upon the shingle beside my door, was not my own. A tragic destiny had driven me from home and friends, and, worst of all, from my own name. In a moment of weakness, of blinded judgment, I had resolved to throw away what had only been a curse to me, and to begin my new life under a new cognomen. I would shake off every association which belonged to Meredith Place. So I had come among these people under a false title. What of that? Had I not the right? Who was wronged by my doing so? I would be a man and a worker; I would fight with fate and conquer; would become rich and respected; would make the wilderness blossom like the rose; would build a fine home in place of this hut of logs; would bring a sweet wife to it, and rear fair children. Aye, and some day, perhaps on my wedding-day, or when those children were old enough to wonder at it, some hated man or woman of that old home and old life would happen along, would recognize me, and cry out—‘‘Why, this man is a pretender and a liar! I know him. This is not Joseph Pillmaker, M. D., but Joe Meredith, of Hampton, who murdered his uncle and ran away with his gold!’’ I might deny the murder and the robbery; but the fact of the false name would be fatal to me. Already the cloud grew and darkened, casting a gloom and chill over my new sunshine. Already I started, looking

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up nervously when strangers suddenly hailed me. And this thing would grow and grow, becoming more and more unendurable; and I would acquire the hang-dog look of a guilty man, or the bleached complexion of a plant that lives ever in the shadow. There would be no relief,—time would but make the disease more incurable—every dollar earned, every honor gained, would but make the fall heavier. O, what a fatal mistake! O, what a wretched prospect! Better ‘‘pull up stakes’’ again, as the rough settlers about me said when they changed their local habitation—better pull up stakes and tramp still farther West, and when I found a stopping-place, resume my own name. Less danger in that than the other. An enemy might come along and say, ‘‘This man is a murderer, who fled from his native place;’’ but I could make my honest defense, or, if arrested, stand my trial and fight for my rights. I should breathe easier if this were done. I felt, too, that I no longer run any great danger of arrest. From the facts which I placed in Lillian’s hands at the time of my last visit, she must exonerate me from all participation in the crimes which had wrecked her prosperity. Ah, Lillian! What sense in imagining a sweet wife and fair children, when I knew, and felt more truly every day, that the only woman I loved or ever could love, was this dear cousin, from whom circumstances had torn me? A mad longing took possession of me to see her, hear her speak, know what was happening to her. Was she married to her noble and admirable lover, Don Miguel? Was she happy? Was she working beyond her strength? I had to fight against such longings often and faithfully. While I sat, thinking and dreaming, the little steamer, whose tri-weekly visits were the event of the season, puffed up to her dock, and the storekeeper went out for the mail-bag, and the idlers and business men gathered about to attend to the discharge of cargo, hear the news, and take part in the small excitements of the hour. I did not stir. Why should I go down to the boat? Some passing traveler might recognize me, should I do so. I was already growing morbid, you see. I sat there gazing gloomily at the cheerful scene in which other men were taking an active part. After a time the shoemaker came up from the store, and, as he passed, looked in with a neighborly nod, and threw me my paper. ‘‘Thought I’d bring it along, seein’ you didn’t come down for’t.’’ ‘‘Thank you,—much obliged,’’ and he continued on his way, while I eagerly seized upon the only reading matter which I could command in that far region,—the weekly New York paper to which I was a subscriber. I read it to the last item, and then turned to the advertisements for amusement and instruction. A constant reading of advertisements tends to the general improvement of the reader. I passed down several columns until I came to ‘‘To whom it may concern.’’ It concerned me, as I dis376

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covered, with flushing cheek and a pulse which rose like that of a feverpatient, as the letters danced and glimmered before my vision: ‘‘If this meets the eye of Joseph M., who left Hampton village in March last, he is begged to come home immediately, by his cousin, L. M. Circumstances have occurred which make it important for him to do so, and he is assured that his return will be to his own best interests. Lillian.’’

There was that sweetest name, so sacred, so dear to me. Doubtless she had signed it, instead of an initial, not only as a peace-offering, but as being more likely to arrest my attention. ‘‘Circumstances had occurred.’’ In vain to question myself, and to grow dizzy with conjecture. I could only know by answering the advertisement in person,—and that would take ten, twelve days—and I must wait until the return of that fussy little steamer from the ports above at noon tomorrow, before I could make a beginning. And then, there was my business to settle up! This consisted of collecting my fees for some twenty or thirty visits, paying up the two months rent due on my office, selling out my stock-in-trade to ‘‘the other doctor,’’ who would jump at the chance of getting my office-chair, saddle-bags, and medicine-chest. In all, I hoped to realize about forty dollars, which would pay my way to Hampton, and then?—a blank. What would be filled in that dreary blank I dared not imagine,—I, who was naturally so hopeful; but who felt that disappointment, now, would be so unbearable. I had tough work compelling the settlers to pay cash for doctor’s bills,— they expected time, and to pay in grain, lumber, and town-lots, but I was imperative. I had been sent for to go home, and a man could not travel on town-lots. By dint of argument like this, I had worked my way through the settlement, and back to the little wharf, by the time the steamer arrived on her return trip, and with a little of the hard-earned contents of my wallet, I bought my ticket, waved my hat good-bye to the storekeeper, the shoemaker, and ‘‘the other doctor,’’ as well as to the storekeeper’s pretty daughter, who had come down to the window of the warehouse which overlooked the water, with very red eyes, to say farewell. My conscience was clear as to never having given reason for those tears, which were probably due to the fact that I was the only marriageable young man in Podunk. I had a wearisome time upon that ten days journey, my heart flying forward in advance of the crawling boat and train, only to come back wearied with the vain effort to satisfy itself before the day and hour appointed. In the crisp and frosty twilight of an autumn day I stepped out of the cars at Hampton station. I was glad that the growing darkness hid my identity from the prying eyes of the loungers about the place. I would not even

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question the station-master as to the residence of Miss Meredith, preferring to seek it for myself. Two thoughts were throbbing in my heart as I strode along the quiet streets,—like the ticking of a pendulum in my ears they swung—‘‘my cousin Lillian! the figure eight!’’ ‘‘my cousin Lillian! the figure eight!’’ Was the mystery unvailed?—how fared she whom I loved? But why pause for such questioning, when here, at last, was the little gate, the modest walk, leading up to the white cottage, and I had but to knock, enter, and learn all? You all know what it is to hesitate on the brink of certainty. The shade had not been dropped over the front window of the small parlor. I shall be pardoned when I confess that once more I acted the part of spy, so far as to glance within before venturing so much. There was no light in the room, except the glow of an open fire, which the chill of the autumn evening made particularly pleasant. She was there—no one else. She sat in her little rocker beside the hearth, her eyes watching the castles rising and falling in the coals, her cheek flushed with the heat and rosy light of the fire, her hair glittering in waves of gold and brown,—the somber black dress making her fairness and youth all the more apparent. She could not be married to Don Miguel, or she would not be here alone, and dressed in mourning! Silently I opened the entry-door, softly I stepped forward into the rosily dim room: ‘‘You called me, cousin Lillian, and here I am.’’ She turned, with a little cry, and when she saw me standing there, did not stir or speak for a long minute. ‘‘You sent for me, Lily?’’ ‘‘Yes, I did. Oh Joe, I am so glad you have come.’’ ‘‘You don’t appear very glad.’’ She arose, holding out her hand. ‘‘You astonished me so much,’’ she said, and then I saw that she was quite pale, but as I pressed her hand the color came back to her face—neither of us knew just what to say. ‘‘Oh cousin,’’ began Lily a second time, but broke down and began to sob. ‘‘What is it?’’ I asked, gently; I wished to draw the fair head to my shoulder, to kiss away the tears, but I had no right,—I should not have done it with a cousin’s love, and she looked upon me only with that affection. ‘‘It is all discovered,’’ she exclaimed—‘‘I have so much to tell you.’’ ‘‘The figure eight?’’ ‘‘Oh no, not that. I expect I must teach school forever, Joe. But that is nothing. Did you know that Arthur Miller was dead?’’ 378

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‘‘I know nothing of what has happened since I wrote that letter.’’ ‘‘Sit down, Joe; I will tell you all.’’ She drew a chair beside her own. She did not think to ask if I were hungry or thirsty, or to light the lamps. What was in her heart found voice, and I, in listening, was unconscious of anything but the strange, surprising story. My cry of horror when she came to the supper-table scene caused her to ask— ‘‘Did you, then, never suspect her during all your watchfulness?’’ ‘‘I did and did not. I could not help it, and still I fought against the evidence of my own senses.’’ And then I told her how I had seen Inez meet Arthur at the gate that stormy summer night, and the shock I had experienced to realize that she ‘‘or ere these shoes were old, With which she followed my poor (uncle’s) body,’’

was carrying on a flirtation with this gay young man. I told her of the love-philters, of my own suspicions of Miss Miller from the first day. ‘‘Poor Annie,’’ sighed Lillian; ‘‘you were as unjust to her as others were to you. Her worse fault was to love my father—to expect to become his wife. She is arrogant, I know; ambitious, I know; suspicious of others, because her life of self-dependence has made her so; she did not like you, cousin Joe. She did wish her brother to marry me, and after she had discovered his guilt, she could not at once denounce him. But I love her— she is my best friend—my second mother,—and oh, Joe, she has suffered so much and changed so much you would hardly recognize her.’’ ‘‘I am sure she has my full forgiveness for any ill-will she has cherished towards me.’’ ‘‘She regrets it now,’’ said Lily, softly. I told her, too, about the handkerchief and key. She informed me that Miss Miller had picked up the key from the floor of the upper hall where some one had dropped it, and thought it best to say nothing about it, while making every effort to discover the box or the loser of the key. As to the handkerchief, she had gone, almost as quickly as the nature of Dr. Meredith’s death was revealed, to the laboratory to examine for herself the shelf with which she was nearly as familiar as the doctor had been. There was a drop of acid on the outside of the bottle, which she had wiped off with her handkerchief, which she afterwards dropped; but, being unable to recover it, said but little about it, knowing how liable all were to suspicion upon the smallest evidence, under the circumstances. Her reason for never betraying her knowledge that Inez had carried the wine to the doctor, was her reluctance to involve the young wife in danger, unless she was actually guilty of his death, and upon this point her convic-

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tions changed and wavered. In the first place, she esteemed it incredible that Inez could execute so daring a deed, even if capable otherwise of the crime; and as, by watching and observation of the strictest kind, she satisfied herself that Mrs. Meredith knew nothing of the missing box, she persuaded herself either that the doctor, learning something perhaps very bad with regard to his wife, had committed suicide, or that I, or some other enemy, for some unknown purpose, had contrived his death for plunder or revenge. When she found that Inez was going to Gram’me Hooker’s for lovepowders, and that she was foolishly infatuated with Arthur, a comprehension began to dawn on her, of the mingled folly, ignorance, and superstition to which the husband had fallen a victim. Still, she would not denounce her, without further proof, especially at the critical time when Arthur had become involved in the robbery; but after his cruelly sudden death, she would have made known all she suspected or had overheard, in order to clear his memory from the stain of murder. Illness prevented this being done on the instant; meantime, it worked on her sick fancy, until it came about that she did, in her somnambulic condition, what she had intended, with more effectiveness than she could have done it waking. Inez’ guilty conscience could not withstand the soul-glance of the sleeper, and she fell. ‘‘Since then,’’ Lillian concluded, ‘‘Annie has been slowly recovering from the exhausting effects of all this excitement. The people show her every attention; feeling that her brother’s death was too great a punishment for his sin, they try to atone to her as far as possible by lavishing kindness upon her. She stays with me; and has been almost well to-day. She just retired to her room before you came. And now,’’ with a smile, ‘‘I believe the good villagers are only anxious to atone to you for their persecutions. I’ve no doubt they will make Hampton a very agreeable place to you.’’ ‘‘It may be,’’ I said; ‘‘but it will take more resolution than I possess to enable me to stay here.’’ ‘‘Why,’’ she queried, innocently;—I thought, too, she looked disappointed. ‘‘Are you teaching?’’ I asked, answering her question with another. ‘‘Oh, yes. We are doing very nicely, too. When Miss Miller gets able to take her share of the responsibility, all will be well; I would not be idle for anything,’’—sadly. ‘‘Did the shocking discovery of Inez’ guilt break off the match between you and Don Miguel?’’ I asked, presently, trying very hard to make my voice natural and careless, but jerking out the words with a ridiculous hoarseness. 380

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She looked into mine with those blue, beautiful eyes— ‘‘We were never engaged. He is a good man, though; and I hope he will come back to New York and marry Sophie. She loves him, and I could not.’’ ‘‘Why?’’ I asked bluntly; ‘‘he had every quality to render you happy. You will never have another such a chance, Lily.’’ ‘‘Well, I am in no haste to marry.’’ She said this with great dignity, lifting the proud little head, and darting a glance of fire at me; but the next moment her lip trembled, and she turned towards the hearth to hide her face from me. I never knew whether it was the flash of pride, or the tremble of her lips, which betrayed her secret to me. I only asseverate that I never before had suspected it,—no, not once. Now, I saw it plainly, all of a sweet, blinding sudden. The blood rushed hotly to my cheeks, warm tears rose and dimmed my eyes; I took no thought of what I did or said, but leaned forward, crying—‘‘Lily! Lily!’’ She turned to me, reading all the meaning in my voice, and not daring to look up, said archly: ‘‘Cousin Joe, there are none so blind as those who will not see.’’ ‘‘Darling Lily,’’ I answered, leaping from my chair, and dragging her up too, for I had seized her hand, ‘‘if you really mean that, put your arms about me this moment, look me in the eyes, and say it again.’’ Of course the shy child wouldn’t put her arms about such a bear as I had grown, but she looked in my eyes, after a time, and I saw into her soul, as into a well, and myself at the bottom of it. And how long we might have stood there in a heavenly rapture such as is only allowed us once on earth, I know not. Moments fled into a sweet, swift hour,—and then the old housekeeper came in with a lamp, and I dropped Lily’s nestling hand, trying to look like a stranger and a traveler, instead of an angel just out of Paradise. ‘‘My sakes, so your cousin’s come, has he? I’m right glad on’t, for you’ve nigh about looked your eyes out. Why didn’t you tell me, Miss Lily, so’s I might be makin’ a cup o’ tea. Railway travelers is mostly beat out at the end o’ their journey. ‘‘Time enough yet,’’ I answered, gayly,—and Biddy made the tea, and Lillian went with me to the dining-room and poured it out for me, and I sipped I knew not what of ambrosia, the drink of the gods, while her eyes lighted the table, and her sweet face beamed on me as I felt that it was evermore to beam:—blessed be His name who made my Lily to bloom, and me to gather its sweetness.

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chapter xxiv The Figure Eight It was on one of the sweetest and last of May days that I walked with Lillian, arm-in-arm, towards Meredith Place—Lillian Meredith still, but Lillian, my wife! Aye, that morning we had gone to the village church and been made one in the presence of the whole township, all wishing us joy as heartily as ever bride and groom were wished it, and with a sort of affectionate enthusiasm, too; for that reaction of which I have spoken had set in, in my favor, from the moment it was known that I had returned to Hampton. Everybody had sought to atone for the bad things he or she had said about me; and it being found, on trial, that I was really a thoroughlybred physician, no sooner did I choose my office and put my name on the door, than old ladies began to consult me about their neuralgias, and young mothers about their teeth-cutting babies, and I grew, in an incredibly short space of time, (owing to a lack of competition and the grand law of compensations), into that envied and enviable being, the popular young doctor. Then Hampton took a start to grow about that time, the influx of strangers the previous summer proving greatly to its advantage, as calling attention to the fact that it was one of the most charming spots outside of New York. All the new comers, having first heard the interesting history of the young doctor, were drawn by curiosity and the example of others to patronize him; and thus it came about that before the first winter was over I found myself in a position not only to take care of myself, but to support a wife. Happy and envied fellow, I may well say. Lily’s school had also flourished like a green bay tree, and the only regret felt by the villagers at the announcement of our intended marriage, was that she would relinquish it. When assured that Miss Miller had purchased her interest, and would carry the school forward in its plans of advancement, they were well satisfied. This was Miss Miller’s own doing. We had pleaded and argued with her to induce her to come to our home, and share our cares and pleasures through life, but she thought she saw her future marked out for her in the school, and told us lovingly, but with that firmness of hers which sometimes looked like hardness, that we should see enough of her if our homes were half a mile apart. I have boasted my own popularity, as it seemed needless to mention that Lily,—who had always, from a child, when she first rode out in the carriage 382

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with her mother, been an object of admiration and delight to Hampton, and whose strange, sad experiences for the last two years, had touched and won all hearts—it seemed needless to mention that she had the tearful congratulations of all. Because she was my bride, need I hesitate in saying that she was the fairest, and the purest, and the best who ever stood in that old church to receive the marriage benediction? O, what a day that had been! the crown of life!—and now we were walking arm-in-arm, as simply as two children, towards our home, which our good old housekeeper had all in order for us, and where the simple feast of the evening was spread, awaiting our arrival. For we had repurchased Meredith Place, and it was to be ours, should success still wait on our efforts. With the thousand dollars which I had sent her that night from the laboratory when I laid in wait for the coiner, and by the sale of the bracelet and other trinkets which Bertha Chateaubriand had returned to her as the true owner, Lily had been able to make a payment down of two thousand dollars, and the owner was willing to receive the rest in two and three years, knowing that my profession was lucrative, and there was no risk in mortgages. Thus the dear old place promised to be kept in the family, to future generations I hoped, though I had not said so as yet to the happy girl who clung to my arm, looking with eager glance forward on the flowery road. For once again, as on that lovely day when the apple-blossoms showered down on the old stage-coach which held her father and his bride, the last of the apple-blossoms dropped about our feet, and the first of the roses swung their offerings of perfume before the bride, turning sweet faces of pink and white, which were not more fresh nor fair than her own. Boldly, out of the trees and verdure of Meredith Place, arose the square gray tower, warmed with the rich, dark green of its glistening ivy. As we approached it, it happened that we saw first that side of the tower which fronted on the roof of the house, and looked towards the north. Certainly I know not how I chanced to observe it, and to think of it, now, for the first time out of all the thousands in which I had looked on it, but it flashed into my mind, and I spoke out to Lillian: ‘‘There are two windows on the north side of the tower.’’ ‘‘Certainly, Joe; is that new to you?’’ ‘‘I never thought of it before.’’ ‘‘There are no real windows there, of course; for, if you remember, in the tower room there are but six, two on the east, south, and west. These must be imitated for symmetry.’’

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‘‘Of course. How would the wall look, unrelieved by any break?’’ I said, carelessly; but still a thought had entered my mind, which caused the blood to rush to my face, and gave me, I fear, for a few minutes, an air of preoccupation not flattering to the new-made wife. These double windows were long and narrow, softened by shutters painted only a shade lighter than the gray-stone; and over the shutters on the north side, which, being made to cover false windows, were, of course, never opened, the ivy had clambered until they were nearly concealed. As I say, I never could account for their having so particularly drawn my attention at that time, of all others, when one would have supposed the fair woman by my side would have engrossed soul and sense. ‘‘How lovely the world is, Lillian,’’ I said, presently; ‘‘this day was made for lovers to wed in. How beautiful Meredith Place looks. I never saw it so perfect in all its aspects. The lawn is like velvet, the distant woods are mantled in the delicate green of half-expanded leaves. It will not be the tea-hour yet for some time. After we have looked through the lower rooms and complimented Biddy on their appointments, why not ascend to the tower and spend a half-hour? I suppose it is just as Mademoiselle Sophie left it.’’ ‘‘I should like it, of all things,’’ responded Lily; and so we wandered on. Once safely inside the gates, we went hand-in-hand instead of arm-inarm, stopping to pull a rose here and a violet there, on to the pleasant, spacious portico, where the vines were weaving light shadows, through the open, breezy hall, the parlors, newly garnished, and with windows open and curtains looped with flowers, up the wide staircase, through the perfumed chambers, on, to the narrow passage and stairs leading up to the tower. We climbed the steep steps bravely, for we knew the reward which awaited us. O, Beautiful! When I threw wide the closed shutters and pushed back the sash, what a world of loveliness lay beneath us! The glimmering, winding brook, the level pastures, the glorious woods, the pleasant gardens and lawns, the distant hills! And here we were, alone, together, wedded, standing, as it were, between heaven and earth, the blue ether around us, the holy heaven above, the fair landscape beneath. ‘‘Lily, are we in heaven or on earth?’’ I pressed her close to my side; her bright head lay on my shoulder, and in that hour of fruition I felt that all I had suffered since the hour of my birth was compensated for. Presently we sat down on the chintz-covered lounge which Sophie had placed in the little room for her comfort. The thought which had occurred to me on the road returned with a power which held my heart still 384

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a moment, only to send it bounding wildly when it regained its freedom. I looked around upon the windows,—the carpenters, in fitting them, not supposing any particular finish would be required in this tower-room, had left their chalk figures boldly on the unpainted walnut wood. The casements were numbered, one, two, etc., up to six. I looked at the blank wall at the north;—there hung the map of the first survey of Meredith Place. A sort of phrensy or inspiration seized me. I sprang and tore it from its place, flinging it to the floor. Lily gave a cry;—no wonder. Two little recesses or cupboards, with doors, and numbered seven and eight, appeared in what it had been taken for granted was solid wall. I pulled open the door numbered eight. There stood the curious, iron-bound box, with the steel rivets! The unnatural tension to which, even in my happiest moments, my mind had been strained for almost two years, gave way, and I staggered and sank back upon the lounge. I was far more disturbed than Lillian,—perhaps because I had made the unraveling of the mystery of the figure eight the object of my life. I lay there so cold and stupefied that Lily was alarmed, and was about to descend and call the housekeeper. I motioned her back. She sat and held my hand, waiting for me to recover my composure. Suddenly a burst of glory from the setting sun filled the tower-room with a piercing radiance. ‘‘Be comforted, be calm, dear Joe; there is the good omen of our future.’’ In truth, I had no cause for anything but rejoicing!—only, the sudden revelation overpowered me. When my strength returned I lifted down the box, which, now that it was partially empty, I could just manage to do. The doctor, in placing it there, must have made more than one journey up and down those steep stairs. ‘‘There is treasure enough here, still,’’ I said, ‘‘to last us a lifetime.’’ ‘‘Oh, my poor father!’’ cried Lily, as she saw the gold. We both recalled that happy night when he had shown us the result of his hard work in California. I did not chide my darling for weeping long and sadly; I only felt happy to know that I was permitted to soothe and cherish her. After a time, she started up and wiped away her tears. ‘‘I must look in those little cupboards,’’ she said; ‘‘I remember them, now. Look, Joe, at this and this,—these were made by my father when he was a boy. He used to keep his pencils and drawings here, and his tools. This was his workshop. He often told me, when I was a little girl, about the happy hours he spent in the tower; but I never saw these shelves, for the map was hung here, for safe keeping, before I could remember. Dear papa! here’s the very broken jack-knife and the little saw and the file—and this toy-

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table I dare say he whittled out with this knife,’’ and she wept afresh, but now softly. It did seem most marvelous that neither Sophie, in her renovations, nor Lillian or Miss Miller, in their investigations, had chanced to push aside that yellow old map. But thus it had been. It hung there, apparently, on the blank wall, and, further than a dusting at the hands of Sophie’s servant, had never been disturbed. We heard the old housekeeper calling us down to the little feast she had prepared, and which we were to enjoy, alone, together. Lillian’s afflictions had been such that no one expected a merry-making at her wedding, and after the ceremony at the church, and cake and wine at the cottage, we had been left to take possession of our home in quiet. We locked the door leading up to the tower, locking up with it, as far as possible, all exciting memories of our discovery. We wished to think only of each other during this, our first home-feast, to which not even our honored and loved friend, Miss Miller, would consent to be present. The next day we sent for her, and together we went up, and counted the contents of the precious box, ascertaining that not over a third of the gold had been abstracted. It was a terrible duty to the sister of the dead robber, but she went through with it bravely. I thought much, for some time thereafter, upon the probable manner in which Arthur had discovered the box. It was hardly credible that he could have been in the house at the time, and followed the Doctor to the tower; it must have been, that, walking along the road, his attention was attracted by the glimmering of a light in the tower, which would naturally excite his curiosity; also, one or more of the windows may have been open, enabling him to make out some of the movements of the master of the house, perhaps to see the map removed and replaced. He may have thought nothing of it until after the mysterious death of Doctor Meredith, and the excitement over the missing gold. Then, he had at once the key to the hidingplace. Yielding to temptation, instead of making his knowledge public, he kept it for his own benefit—doubtless, (for ‘‘hell is paved with good intentions’’) excusing himself with the resolution to marry one or the other of the rightful owners, and thus, in a manner, flatter himself that he was not really a robber. Lillian refused him. Saying nothing about his having offered himself to her, he then turned his attentions to Inez, who was only too eager to accept them. For a time he fully intended to marry her; but the temptation of Bertha’s family and fortune were too powerful for one of his weak principles to resist. The investigations of the authorities were so searching that he had never ventured to convey away the box, nor the bullion in the bars in which 386

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he found it. If it should become known that he sold ingots, or was seen with them in his possession, suspicion would at once settle upon him. He had the caution which would have made a very successful scoundrel. With much difficulty he succeeded in obtaining the dies, and thereafter took advantage of the existence of the laboratory to coin money as he had opportunity, and of carrying it away with him in small quantities. Miss Miller, whose determination to sift the matter had been as fixed as mine, learned enough to suspect her own brother, and was upon his track, though still not positive of his guilt, the night in which I broke her arm. How Inez also detected him, we never knew, but supposed that her burning jealousy had prompted her to an observation of his movements, which led to a discovery which she herself did not expect. Whether she or he had been cognizant of the somnambulist’s visit, at the time she carried the ingots to her room, and had afterwards entered and taken them from the bureau, was never definitely ascertained, but his sister inclined to the belief that it was Arthur. The reader will easily infer that the possession of the box made still more sure our worldly prosperity; the claims were swept from Meredith Place, the world smiled, and we, being happy in our own hearts, had not a cloud in our heaven, save the memory of our dear father’s untimely death. The following winter we received cards for the wedding of Sophie and Don Miguel. Lillian could not think of attending; the dark tragedies of the past were yet too recent to be thus vividly recalled; but I took the opportunity to see the Don, not only to show him that he bore him no ill-will on account of his infamous cousin, but to acquaint him with the fact that such portion of the recovered property as belonged to her by law, he could claim in her name if he saw fit. He bade us keep what was ours, by every right, merely saying that Inez had escaped from her convent and married an unfortunate sugar-planter, whose safety he, Don Miguel, had insured by a quiet threat to the wife to be prudent if she did not wish to draw down the vengeance of her relatives upon her head. How far that beautiful and unprincipled woman may have been a murderer at heart, her Maker only knows. We, who suffered most by her, always believed that she had no intention of killing her husband—at least not so suddenly—but was trying these same arts upon him which she afterwards tried upon Arthur Miller—not, however, to enchant, but to disenchant him. We never sought or heard tidings of her, after my interview with her cousin at the time of his marriage. Don Miguel appeared so happy, and so well-mated with his pretty and stylish wife, that if my dear Lily had a shadow on her conscience with regard to him, she might thereafter disperse it.

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I told her so, on my return, and she smiled and said she had drawn such an inference long ago, from a general observation of mankind. But, whether other women have more than one true love, or other men can choose and choose again, it is a grave and certain truth that Lillian and I have never even fancied she but one man, I but one woman.

the end.

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metta fuller victor (1831–1885) wrote detective novels under the pseudonym Seeley Regester. She also wrote over one hundred dime novels throughout the early nineteenth century. Her most successful title was Maum Guinea and Her Plantation ‘‘Children,’’ or, Holiday-week on a Louisiana Estate: A Slave Romance (1861). catherine ross nickerson is Associate Professor of American Studies at Emory University. She is the author of The Web of Iniquity: Early Detective Fiction by American Women (Duke University Press, 1998).

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Victor, Metta Fuller, 1831–1885. [Dead letter] The dead letter, and The figure eight / Metta Fuller Victor. p. cm. isbn 0-8223-3177-2 (cloth : alk. paper) — isbn 0-8223-3165-9 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Detective and mystery stories, American. I. Title: Dead letter. II. Title: Figure eight. III. Title. ps3129.v58d4 2003 813'.4—dc21 2003003999