The Dead Letter · Part I · Chapter 1 10 (1/3)

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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 entrusted 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 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 anyone 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, 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 forever, to drive me out from the friendship of those whom he wanted to himself, for his own selfish aims, James was representing to them not only that I loved 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 meantime, 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 half-past eleven⁠—at twelve the ceremony should have been performed. Mary came in while I stood there wrapped in emotion more than thought. Her eyes were 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 veil; 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—downstairs. Oh, Richard,” she cried, breaking down utterly in a burst of tears, and throwing herself into my arms, “it would break your heart to see her! It almost kills 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 today 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 prayerbook 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 someone 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 someone 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 upstairs with her sister; Mr. Argyll sat in the library with a book, which he held open but did not read. As the sun declined, I felt that a brisk walk in the cold air would be the best medicine for my drooping spirits⁠—it was my usual 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 today, 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 steel-blue tinged the ice in the river. How desolate the place looked, stripped of its summer garments! I leaned over the gate, while the night 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 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 tonight. 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 anything, 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 anything 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!”