The Dead Letter: An American Romance

by Metta Victoria Fuller Victor

“The Lord be with you,” she said, earnestly.

Armed with a stout walking-stick, with which I intended to inflict punishment upon any intruder of earthly mold, I walked out on the lawn, taking such a survey as I could in the dim light; like the rain in the children’s riddle, I went “round and round the house,” and finally took station on the front porch, where I walked softly back and forth, listening for sounds within and without. I heard and saw nothing. The long hours slipped slowly away. Just before moonrise the darkness seemed to deepen, as it does before dawn. My intention was to take up some position on the lawn, where, unseen myself, I could command the approaches to the villa, and also have a view of Henry’s room, with the balcony. It was time now to secrete myself, before the approaching moon should reveal me to the person or persons who might themselves be on the watch. Accordingly, I selected a seat on the little rustic bench, completely encircled with bushy evergreens, which not only concealed my person, but afforded me considerable protection from the cold. I can not, to this day, breathe the pungent odor of the spicy trees, without recalling the experiences of that night. A silence, like that which Dr. Kane speaks of as one of the most impressive features of the long Arctic night, brooded around; over against the hills came gradually stealing the silvery luster of the rising moon, while the valleys yet lay in profoundest gloom; the dimly glimmering stretches of snow broadened into whiter fields; the picturesque villa, with its turrets and porches and pointed roof, stood black and quiet before me. I could hear a dog barking afar off, as it were some dream-dog barking in some dream-world. I had almost forgotten the cause of my being there, at that strange hour, in that lone spot, gazing at that dark mass of building, empty of life and warmth as was her heart of joy or hope; the intense cold, the odor of the pines and hemlock, the trance of thought into which I had fallen, were benumbing me.

Suddenly I saw a shapeless and shadowy brightness hovering amid those dark turrets. It was the death-light of which Mrs. Scott had told me. A warm thrill ran through my fingers and toes, arousing me to the keenest consciousness. I watched it flutter and move—stand still—flutter again—and disappear. It lasted perhaps three minutes. In that time I had made up my mind as to the mysterious appearance—it was the light of a lamp or candle being carried about in a person’s hand. That was what it most resembled; but who carried it, and how was the reflection thrown there, over the roof? There was certainly a mystery about this which, had I been at all superstitious, or even nervous, would have unfitted me for any further cool investigation. I resolved that if I could not master the marvel then, I would do it by the light of day. I watched intently, hoping it would reäppear, and give me some glimpse of its origin. While I waited, a ray of light pierced through the shutters of Henry’s room. I will acknowledge that for one single instant the hand of the dead seemed laid on my heart; it turned cold, and refused to beat. The next, I smiled grimly at myself. I had never been a moral or physical coward. The solution of the mystery was now in my grasp, and I had no idea of letting it slip. I was confident that some person was playing the mischief in the deserted house; but if I had really expected to confront the inhabitants of another world, I should not have hesitated. The key of the main entrance was in my pocket; I walked swiftly to the house, unlocked the door as softly as possible, and grasping my stick firmly in my hand, sprung up the stairs. It was quite dark in the house, although it was now light out of doors; in my haste, I hit my foot against a chair at the bottom of the stairs, and overthrew it. I was provoked, for I wished to come upon these midnight prowlers unawares. Knowing just where the room was situated, I went directly toward it; it was very dark in the upper passage, all the blinds being closed; I groped for the handle of the door—something rustled, something stirred the air—I flung the door open. There was no light in it. All was dark and silent. Before I could fling the shutter open, letting in a peaceful flood of silver moonlight, my hope of detecting the intruder was almost at an end. I was certain that something had passed me in the obscurity of the hall; I had been conscious of that subtle magnetism which emanates from a human form, perceived in the blackest night. It might be the magnetism of soul instead of body, and a disembodied spirit might have sent the same electric current through me. At all events, I had now nothing for my labor. I did not think that another journey over the house would result in any discovery, since the warning had been given; I had no lamp or lantern with me; I reluctantly, after lingering and listening some time in vain, closed the room and the house, and returned to the cottage, where I drank the coffee which awaited me, laid down on a buffalo-robe before the stove, and slept away my vexation.

I was not very communicative as to my adventures when eagerly questioned by my entertainers the following morning. They were satisfied, by my very reticence, that I had seen something to puzzle me, and were both alarmed and triumphant. In answer to their inquiries, which they were too respectful to press, I assured them that I had reason to think, with them, that the villa required attention. I had not been able to satisfy myself who was disturbing the premises; but that I should not rest until I knew. I should return that night and sleep in the villa; I wished to enter it very quietly, probably before dark, so as not to alarm the inmate or inmates; and I was confident that I should thus be able to pounce upon the ghost. Mrs. Scott regarded me with admiring awe.

“She wouldn’t go for to sleep in that house alone for all the riches of Solomon,” and wouldn’t I, at least, provide myself with pistols?

When I went into Mr. Argyll’s office that morning, he greeted me with marked coldness. At last I could not conceal from myself that, not only had his manner changed, but that he wished me to feel that it had. He gave me, as I entered, a searching, suspicious glance, saying, “Good-morning, Richard,” in the most formal tone. Nothing further. I took up a book, hiding my pain and embarrassment in an attempt to read; but my mind was not on the legal difficulties expounded therein; I was wondering at the causes of the situation in which I found myself. A hanger-on! yes, an unwelcome hanger-on in an office where I no longer had any conceded rights—in a home where I was no longer trusted.

“Has Mr. Argyll placed a spy on my actions? Does he know already that I was out the entire night? and does he judge me before he has an explanation?” I asked myself, indignantly. “If he thinks I am forming bad habits, doing wrong in any respect, why does he not remonstrate with me—give me a chance to defend myself?”

I had intended to take his advice in the matter of the haunted house; but now I sat, angry and silent, feeling, oh, so wounded and forlorn. I did not stay long in the office; going to my room, I wrote a long letter to my mother, telling her I should come soon to pay her the visit which should have been sooner made had I not been engrossed with the duty to which I had vowed myself.

Yes! I had pledged my own heart to devote myself to the discovery of Henry Moreland’s murderer; and if Eleanor herself had put her foot on that heart, and crushed it yet more, I do not know that I should have held my vow absolved.

I should not have gone to the mansion that day, had not a message been sent, late in the afternoon, that Mr. Burton had arrived, and expected me to meet him at tea. I went; and had the pleasure of seeing little Lenore enthroned by the side of James, who attended upon her as if she were a princess, and of being treated with bare civility by all save Mr. Burton. Miss Argyll was ill, and did not come down.