There was a secretary in this room and before it he spent most of the remaining time. Some old letters which he found there engrossed him completely, and from one small drawer he took an object that interested him so much he failed to replace it on leaving the room. It was the faded miniature of a pale young mother and a blue-eyed babe. The mother had the look of the Lawrence family, and the child the promise of that saucy and irresponsible loveliness he had seen the day before in the new-made heiress, Polly Earle. This was not all he carried away. After he had finished the letters, he sat a long time musing with knitted brows and rigid hands, then he examined the desk, and sounding it, listened with accustomed ear to the echo made by his knuckles on the various partitions.
Suddenly he stopped, and leaning over a certain receptacle, from which he had drawn a small drawer, he tapped again, and seeming to be satisfied with the result, began to manipulate the place with his penknife till the false bottom came out and he found in the shallow space thus disclosed a small box which he eagerly pulled out, opened, and examined. What it held I do not know, but whatever it was, he thrust it with a triumphant look into his breast, and then repairing the mischief he had done, first closed the drawers and then the desk, shaking visibly as he did so, perhaps with something of the feeling of a thief, though his face had none of the aspects of one, and his step when he moved away had a resolution in it that added height to his stature, which since he had allowed himself to walk upright was imposing.
In another moment he had carried the lantern from the room, and the sleep of years had descended again upon its dark and silent precincts.
VI.
THE PORTRAIT.
HAD the sides of this house suddenly fallen in and revealed to the distant neighbors at the foot of the hill the vision of this creeping marauder passing through the haunted rooms and down the creaking staircases of this long-unopened house, what a panic of fear would have swept through them at the uncanny sight! Glints of light from the small lantern which he carried, passed flickering from wall to wall, and on one window-shade threw an exaggerated outline of his form with its long beard and groping hand, which if seen from without would have sent most persons hurrying down the road. But there was no one in the fields that night, and this passing glimpse of the intruder went out in darkness without any other alarm being given than that which came from the creaking pines and pollards without.
He was on the first floor now, and being more fearful of surprise than in the rooms above he trod more carefully and was more attentive as to where the light of his lantern fell. The parlor, which in houses of this stamp is sufficiently musty when the place is inhabited and a dozen children pass its charmed door every day, was worse than a tomb on this night of its resurrection, and almost drove the man, who so fearlessly opened it, into the open air for refreshment. Being near the ground, its walls had become a prey to damp and mildew, and had not the two family portraits adorning the space over the mantel-shelf been so fortunate as to hang on an inner wall, their ruin would not have been confined to the gilded frames.
It was before these pictures the visitor took his stand. One was the portrait of an old man, and at this he barely glanced. But on the other he gazed earnestly and long, calling up the living appearance of the man it represented and comparing it with his own.
“Taken a year after marriage,” he presently commented, with his old sarcastic smile. “That was, let me see, seventeen years ago. No wonder the cheeks are fresh-colored and the locks unmixed with gray. When I am shaved and my beard trimmed the difference of years will not be so perceptible. Yet time makes changes under the most favorable circumstances, and when a man has led a life like mine, his features naturally coarsen. I must remember this fact when people tell me I have lost the frank, attractive look I see here. Fast living and wild expenditure leave their marks, and I will be as good an example of the returned prodigal as any Bible-pounding exhorter could wish. Yet,” and he sighed, “it is not altogether pleasant to remember one’s misdeeds, or to note the difference in such a face as this and that which lies under my long, disfiguring beard.”
These words, which he had uttered aloud, had no sooner left his lips than he was startled by the silence that followed. A sense of his position suddenly came over him, and casting one final glance at the portrait, he turned quickly away, murmuring under his breath: