The Dead Letter: An American Romance

by Metta Victoria Fuller Victor

“Suffered a sea-change”

into something quite different from the wooden sort of being into which I had gradually been hardening. With the dull routine of my office-life were broken up also many of the cynical ways of thinking into which I had fallen. I felt as if the springs of youth were not quite dried up. The real secret of this improvement was in the eager hope I entertained that the real criminals were soon to be brought to light, and the Argylls made to realize the cruel wrong they had done me. Already, in imagination, I had accepted their regret and forgiven them their injustice. It seemed as if every breath of the sea-breeze, and every bound of the sparkling waves, swept away a portion of the bitterness which had mingled with my nature. The old poetry of existence began to warm my chilled pulses and to flush the morning and evening sky. For hours most melancholy, yet most delicious, I would climb to some lonely post of observation—for I was a perfect sailor among the ropes—and there, where the blue of heaven bent down to meet the blue of the ocean, making an azure round in which floated only the ethereal clouds, all the sweetness of the past would come floating to me in fragments, like the odor of flowers blown from some beloved and distant shore.

The most vivid picture in my sea-dreams, was that of the parlor of the old Argyll mansion, as I had seen it last, on the night of my excursion to the oak-tree. Mary, in the rosy bloom of young womanhood, the ideal of beauty to the eye of a young and appreciative man, whose standard of female perfection was high, while his sensitiveness to its charm was intense—Mary, reading her book beneath the rich light of the chandelier—I loved to recall the vision, except always that it was marred by that shadow of James coming too soon between me and the light. But that flitting vision of Eleanor was as if a saint had looked down at me out of its shrine. I saw, then, that she was no longer of this world, as far as her hopes were concerned. My once strong passion had been slowly changing into reverence; I had grieved with her with a grief utterly self-abnegating, and when I saw that her despair had worked itself up to a patient and aspiring resignation, I now felt less of pity and more of affectionate reverence. I would have sacrificed my life for her peace of heart; but I no longer thought of Eleanor Argyll as of a woman to be approached by the loves of this world. Still, as I mused in my sea-reveries, I believed myself to have exhausted my wealth of feeling upon this now dead and hallowed love. I had given my first offering at the feet of a woman, peerless amid her compeers, and since she had chosen before me, I must needs live solitary, too honored by having worshiped a woman like Eleanor, to ever be satisfied with a second choice. For Mary I felt a keen admiration, and a brother’s fondest love. The noble words she had spoken in my favor had thrilled me with gratitude, and increased the tenderness I had always cherished toward her. When I thought of her approaching marriage, it was not with jealousy, but with a certain indefinable pang which came of my dislike to the motives and character of James. I did not believe that he loved her. Eleanor he had loved; but Mary was to him only the necessary means of securing the name, property, respectability, etc., of his uncle’s family. As I recalled that visit to the gaming-table, I felt, at times, as if I must get back from this journey in time to interfere, and break up the marriage. I would run the risk of being again treated as before—of being misunderstood and insulted—I would run any risk to save her from the unhappiness which must come from such a partnership! So I thought one hour, and the next I would persuade myself that I could not and must not make such a fool of myself; and that, after all, when once “married and settled,” James might make a very good husband and citizen.

Little Lenore was the light and glory of the steamer. People almost fancied that, with such a good angel aboard, no harm could come to the ship. And indeed we had a speedy, prosperous voyage.

Yet it was tedious to Mr. Burton. I had never seen him so restless. I used to tell him that he made the hours a great deal longer by counting them so often. It was evident that he had some anxiety which he did not share with me. A feverish dread of delays was upon him.

After we had crossed the isthmus, and were fairly embarked on the Pacific, his restlessness abated. Yet it was just then that a small delay occurred, which threatened to irritate him into new impatience. It was found that the captain had taken on board quite a company of passengers whom he had promised to land at Acapulco. It was a beautiful, sunny day early in October, that our ship steamed into the little bay. Nearly all the passengers were on deck, to take a look at the country and harbor as we approached. I was upon the hurricane-deck with Lenore, who was delighted with the warm air and green shores, and whose hair streamed on the fresh yet delicious breeze like a golden banner. She observed the distant mountains, the sunny haze, the glimmering water of the bay, with all the intelligence of a woman; while I could not but be more pleased with the roses blowing on her cheeks and the trick the wind was playing with her hair, than with all the scenery about us. The child’s attendant, a steady, careful matron, who had long had the charge of her, was likewise on deck, chatting with some of her new acquaintances, and she could not refrain from coming to us, presently, on the pretext of wrapping Lenore’s shawl closer about her.

“Do look at her, Mr. Redfield,” said the good woman, “did you ever see her looking so bright and healthy, sir? The master was right, sure enough—it was a sea-voyage she needed, above all things. Her cheeks are like pinies, and, if I do say it, who shouldn’t, it’s the opinion of the company that you’re the best-lookin’ couple on the decks. I’ve heard more’n one speak of it this past half-hour.”

“That’s half true, anyhow,” I answered, laughing, and looking at Lenore, whose modest, quiet mind was never on the alert for compliments. She laughed because I did, but remained just as unconscious of her pretty looks as hitherto.

“There’s papa coming,” she said; “something has happened to him.”

With her marvelous quick discernment, so like her father’s, she perceived, before I did, that he was excited, although endeavoring to appear more calm than he really felt.