Dead Letter — The Little Guest and the Apparition, part 1

THE LITTLE GUEST AND THE APPARITION.

I went to Mr. Argyll's to the Christmas dinner.

I was surprised to meet Eleanor in the family group; for, though she now frequently joined the home circle, I thought that on this holiday her own loss would press upon her with overwhelming weight.

Instead of this, I saw a light in her countenance which it had never before worn; her face, totally devoid of smiles or color, yet shone with a serene and solemn luster, the most touching, the most saddening, and yet elevating, of any expression I had ever seen upon human features.

My intense sympathy with her taught me how to translate this new phase of her mind; I felt that, in those mystic vows which she had taken upon herself with a spirit, she had derived a comfort; that she joyed in the consciousness that she was now and from henceforth evermore the bride of him who waited for her in the mansions of the Heavenly country.

This life was transient--to be meekly borne a little while alone--then she would go to him who awaited her in the only true and abiding home.

I, and I only, looked upon her as the wife of Henry Moreland, as sacredly as if he were her living partner.

I only was fitted, by the power of my own passion and suffering, to appreciate her position, and the feelings with which she now returned to her friends, to play such a part in life as duty still pointed out.

I can not explain with what an emotion of reverence I took and pressed the little, attenuated hand which she placed in mine.

There had been, as yet, no change in Eleanor's demeanor toward me.

Whether I imagined it in the rest of the family, or whether they had changed, this much was still certain, and gave me the deepest pleasure I could now know: Eleanor was the same to me as she had ever been--the benignant, gentle sister, who loved and trusted me as a dear brother--more dear than ever since I had given such proofs of my devotion to her cause--since she could not but see how my very heart was wrung with the pain which tore her own.

As long as she continued to treat me thus, as long as I could give her one smallest atom of pleasure in any way, I felt that I could bear any thing from the others.

Not that there was any thing to bear--nothing--nothing, except that indefinable air which a sensitive spirit feels more keenly than any open slight.

The new year was now approaching; it would be the most natural time for entering into new business relations; I felt that if Mr. Argyll intended to offer me the partnership, he would do it then.

If he did not--I must look out for myself--I must go away.

The Christmas dinner was the sumptuous feast which it always had been, the old housekeeper having taken it into her own hands.

She, to judge by her provision, felt that such kind of painstaking would be a relief to the general gloom.

No guests were invited, of course.

It was touching to see how the servants persisted in placing every imaginable delicacy before Miss Eleanor, which she could not, by any possibility, even taste.

A cup of coffee, with a piece of bread, made up her slender Christmas feast.

Yet it was a joy to her father to have her at the table at all.

Mary's affectionate glances continually sought her face;

parent and sister both felt relieved and comforted by its tranquil expression.

James, too, was cheerful; he would have been brilliant had an opportunity offered.

I, who read him tolerably well, knew that it was the sight of Eleanor's tranquillity which had inspired him--and that he did not understand that saintly resignation as I did.

In the course of the conversation around the table, which I did my best to make cheerful, I happened to speak of Lenore Burton.

It was not the first time I had mentioned her, always with such enthusiasm as to excite the interest of the ladies.

Mary asked me many questions about her, finally turning to her sister, and saying, "You were always so fond of children, Eleanor.

May I not send for this beautiful little girl to spend a few days with us?"

"Certainly, Mary, if you think you would like her company."

"Do you think her father would trust her to us a little while, Richard?"

"He can be persuaded, without doubt."

After we had left the table, Mary came to me, with much animation, to whisper her ideas about the proposed visit; she thought the sight of an agreeable, lovely child about the house might interest Eleanor more than any thing else possibly could, and would, at least, delight her father, who was drooping under the silence and mourning in his home.

I

quite agreed with her in her opinions, deciding to write that evening a pressing plea to Mr. Burton, promising the most careful attention to his frail little household blossom which a trusty housekeeper and loving friends could extend.

I would come down to the city for her, and attend her dutifully on her little journey, if his consent was given, and Miss Lenore herself approved the action.

The next day I had an answer.

Mr. Burton wrote that Lenore was delighted with the invitation, and that he accepted it the more willingly, as he was called unexpectedly to Boston, where he should be absent a week or ten days, and that he had not liked leaving his daughter so lonely during the holidays.

He added that he was obliged to leave that morning; but I might come for Lenore at any time; I would find her ready; and that, upon his return from Boston, he would come up to Blankville after her; closing his note with polite thanks for our friendly interest in his little girl, etc. Thus every thing was satisfactory.

The third day after Christmas I went down, in the morning, to New York, returning in the afternoon with my little treasure, who was brimful of happiness, enjoying the ride with the zest of childhood, and confiding herself to my guardianship with a joyful content, which awakened my tenderest care in response.

This artless faith of the child in the providence of the grown-up man it is which brings out the least selfish part of his character, bowing his haughty, hardened nature to minister to the humblest of its confiding wants.

The sisters both came into the hall to receive their little visitor.

They took her into the parlors, bright with chandelier and firelight, unhooding and uncloaking her before the grate.

I was anxious to witness the impression she made, for I had been so lavish of my praises, as to run the risk of creating a disappointment.

It was impossible to be disappointed in Lenore.

She made conquest of the whole family in the half-hour before tea.

It was not her exquisite beauty alone, but her sweet expression, her modest self-possession amid her stranger-friends, enhancing its effect.

Mr. Argyll brightened as I had not lately seen him; every other minute Mary would repeat the welcome of her little guest with another kiss, declaring, in her pretty, willful way, that Mr. Richard was not going to monopolize Miss Lenore because he was the oldest acquaintance--Lenore having chosen her seat by my side, with her hand nestled in mine.

James was not in the house; he did not come home until some time after we had taken our tea--drank his alone in the dining-room--and joined our circle quite late in the evening.

As he came in we were sitting about the fire.

Lenore had gone, of her own inclination, to Miss Argyll's side, where she sat on a low stool, with her head against the lady's lap.

She made a gay picture as she sat there, framed around with the black of Eleanor's garments.

Her traveling-dress was of crimson merino, and her cheeks--what with the ride in the cold air, and the glow of the present fire, were almost as red as her dress; while her golden curls streamed in shining strands over the sable habiliments against which she rested.

She was replying archly to some teasing remark of Mr. Argyll's, and I was thinking what a brightness she would give to the dull house, when James came forward, holding out his hand, with one of his pleasantest smiles, saying, "This is the little lady, is it, whom we have been so anxiously waiting to see?

Can I be introduced, cousin Mary, or does not the Queen of fairies allow herself to make the acquaintance of ordinary mortals?"

You have noticed, reader, how some little cloud, floating in the west at sunset, will be flushed through with rosy light, and how, instantly, while you gaze, it will turn gray, losing every particle of radiance.

So the child changed when he approached and spoke to her.

Her cheeks faded to a gray whiteness; her eyes were riveted on his, but she could not smile; she seemed to struggle with some inward repugnance and her sense of what courtesy demanded; finally she laid her little cold hand in his, without a word, suffered him to kiss her, and, clinging close to Eleanor, remained pale and quiet--her gayety and bloom were alike gone.

Mr. Argyll could not rally her--she shrunk like a sensitive plant.

"If that pallid, stupid little creature is the marvelous child Richard promised us, I must say, he has shown his usual good taste," commented James in an aside to Mary.

He was not flattered by the reception he had met.

"Something is the matter with her, James.

She is wearied with her journey.

I am afraid we are keeping her up too late.

She was gay enough a little while since."

"Are you tired?

Would you wish to go to bed?"

whispered Miss Argyll.

"If you please," she replied, with an air of relief.

"You are not getting homesick so soon?"

asked Mr. Argyll.

"I am not; I like it here very much," answered Lenore, candidly.

"Something is the matter with me now, sir, and you must please excuse me.

My head began to ache just now--so I suppose I had better go to bed."

She bade us good-night with a smile so restrained that I felt afraid she was not going to enjoy her visit.

Eleanor herself took her away to the maid who was to attend upon her, and did not return to us until her little guest was in bed.

"Come, Mary, let's drop the baby question, and play chess," said James, impatiently, as we discussed the visitor; "I'm tired of the subject."

"Wait until to-morrow, and you will become interested too," she responded.

"I like hearty little bread-and-butter girls," said he, "but not such die-away misses as that.

She looks to me as if she read Coleridge already.

Children should be children, to please me."

The repulsion was mutual.

I, only, had noticed the strange effect wrought upon my pet by a sight of James, and knowing, as I did, the peculiarities of her temperament, it had astonished me, and aroused my curiosity.

By the ill-humor with which he received any allusion to Lenore, I believed that James himself was conscious that the pure eyes of the child looked straight into the darker chambers of his heart, and was frightened by what she saw there.

A young man who was gambling away his uncle's property upon the credit of a daughter's hand which he had not yet won, could not have a very easy conscience; and it was not a pleasant thing to be reminded of his delinquencies by the clear eyes of an innocent child.

As he became absorbed in his game of chess, I sat studying his countenance, and thinking of many things.

I wondered if his uncle and cousins were not aware of the change which was coming over him; that reckless, dissipated look which writes certain wrinkles in a young man's face, overwritten in his by outer smiles, which could not hide the truth from a discerning eye.

I asked myself if I could justify my course in keeping silence about what I had seen; it was my plainest duty to inform Mr. Argyll, not only on his account, but on James also.

Such a knowledge, coming to his uncle, though it would be terribly mortifying to his nephew, might be the means of breaking his new fetters of habit before they were riveted upon him.

Such, I felt, was my duty.

At the same time, I shrunk from it, as a person situated as I was naturally would shrink; I was liable to have my motives misconstrued; to have it hinted that self-interest was prompting me to place James in a bad light.

No, I couldn't do it!

For the hundredth time I came to this conclusion, against the higher voice of the absolute right.

I was glad to strengthen myself in my weak course by remembering that Mr. Burton had requested my silence, and that I was not at liberty to betray his confidence.

Looking at him, thinking these things, with my thoughts more in my eyes than they ought to have been had I been on my guard, James suddenly looked up and encountered my gaze.

He pushed the board aside with an angry motion, which overthrew half the men and entirely disconcerted the game.

"Well, how do you like my looks, Richard?"

the defiant eyes glittering with a will which overpowered my own, smiling a deadly smile which threatened me.

"How peevish you are, James!

I believe you threw up the game because you saw I was checkmating you," cried his cousin.

"That's it, my dear child; I never would allow myself to be checkmated!"

"Then you shouldn't play!"

"Oh, sometimes I allow women to win the game; but when I play with men, I never give up.

The man who attempts the chances with me must prepare for defeat."

"How generous you are to the witless sex," said Mary, sarcastically.

"I am much obliged to you, that you sometimes allow us to win.

Just pick up that castle you have sent tumbling in ruins, if you please, sir--and don't ask me to play chess for at least a fortnight."

I perceived a threat in his words of which the girl was quite innocent;

he was throwing down the gauntlet to _me_; again and again his air, his words, were such that I could put no other construction upon them.

He was determined to misunderstand me--to look upon me as a person seeking to injure him.

I was in his way--I must get out of it.

This was the manner he put on to me.

I felt that night, more than ever, the conviction that my connection with the Argylls was about to be broken.

If James felt thus toward me, I should be unwilling to take a position which he regarded as belonging, of right, to himself.

Worse than all, I felt that his treacherous nature was working secretly against me, and that his efforts had already told upon those whose love and respect was most precious to me.

Shortly after, I took my leave; he was so engrossed, with his back toward me, looking over some old engravings, that he did not turn to say good-night.

My room at my boarding-house had a particularly cheerless air that evening; I felt lonely and embittered.

My heart ached for sympathy.

I resolved that, if a partnership was not offered on New Year's, I would propose a visit to my mother, for whose love and encouragement I longed.

The event of going away, too, would give Mr. Argyll the opportunity of declaring himself in one way or another.

Lenore's visit was a decided success--in the way, too, which I had hoped for.

Her fine and spiritual nature was drawn toward Eleanor in a manner which made the latter love her, and grow to feel a consolation in the touch of the little hand, the unsought kiss, and the silent sympathy which brought the child to sit hours by her side, saying nothing, but looking with wonder and reverence at a sorrow too deep for her young heart to fathom.

Lenore frolicked with Mr. Argyll, chatted and sung with Mary; but she was always ready to leave either for her quiet corner by Miss Argyll.

Mary pretended jealousy, though we were all glad to see the interest Eleanor took in the child.

One of our greatest pleasures was in Lenore's singing.

I have mentioned the purity and great compass of her voice.

To hear her sing some of Handel's music, of a Sabbath twilight, was almost to obtain a glimpse into the heaven toward which her voice soared.

I saw Eleanor quietly weeping while she sung, and I knew the music was loosening the tense strain upon her heart-chords.

[Illustration: Page 161. "WELL, HOW DO YOU LIKE MY LOOKS, RICHARD?"

] I was interested in watching two things--first, the attachment between Miss Argyll and Lenore; secondly, the persistent effort of James to overcome his first aversion, and his ultimate success.

By the second day he had mastered his chagrin at the evident dislike of the child, who could hardly compel herself to be polite to him, and who grew constrained and pale whenever he was near her.

James Argyll was not the man to allow a child to slight him with impunity.

His indolence was a repugnance to business and study; it was no weakness of the will, for when he set his resolves upon an object, he usually accomplished it.

I

saw that he had resolved to conquer Lenore.

He paid court to her as if she were a "lady of the land," instead of a little girl; on New Year's he overwhelmed her with splendid presents; he took her out sleigh-riding with him, in a fancy cutter, which he declared was only just large enough for those two, with chimes of silver bells and a spirited horse.

I ought not to have felt grieved that Lenore, also, like the rest of the world, proved faithless to me.

But I did.

I was more hurt by her growing indifference to me and her increasing fascination for James than the subject warranted.

I should have known that rides and dolls, flowers and flatteries, and a dainty little ring for her forefinger, would win any little maiden of eleven; but I had estimated Lenore's character higher.

I had noticed her attractions and repulsions, the former always toward noble and true persons--the latter toward the unworthy.

Now, however, my little bird was charmed by the serpent's eye; she was under the influence of James' will, and I resigned her.