The Dead Letter · Part I · Chapter 1 9 (2/2)

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 tonight 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.

“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 breakfast-bell. 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 today, 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 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 doorbell 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 now my turn to be angry; I turned upon him with a flushed face:

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

“I don’t think there’s anyone 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 anything 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 height 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, 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.