The Dead Letter · Part II · Chapter 2 2 (2/2)

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 I left her she was a girl, half-child, half-woman, bright with the promise of rare sweetness; and now, in this brief summertime 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. 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 tonight.”

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 tonight. 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 overpersuade me; we might both be sorry. I never believed in the marriage of cousins; so I do not think you ought to feel hurt, cousin James.”

He interrupted the tremulous voice with one a little sharper than his first persuasive tone:

“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 tonight. 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 everything 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 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 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 forever. 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.