The Dead 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 anything 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 pincushion, or a bookmark, 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.

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 doorbell rung. Eleanor started; the thought that her lover might have stayed at the hotel adjoining the depot 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 breakfast-room 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!”

“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 anything.”

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.”

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, unveiled, 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, 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

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.

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 keyhole and under the bottom of the door. Silently it crept along over the carpet, moving as if the object which threw it was carried in the hand of a person walking. I do not know exactly what I did expect when it paused in front of the door, except that the door would open, and I should see⁠—the mystery. An instant of suspense⁠—then the flickering light wavered and moved around to the opposite angle from that at which it had first appeared⁠—it was going through the corridor and down the stairs.

“All right,” breathed my companion, in a scarcely audible whisper. “Wait!”

The hand which he laid on my own was cold with excitement. As the last yellow gleam trembled and disappeared, the elements conspired in a grand attack upon our citadel; we could hear nothing but the roar of their artillery⁠—the tramp of their battalions. We waited perhaps five minutes.

“Now,” and I arose, following Mr. Burton through the darkness, as he 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.