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[Illustration:

Page 183.

THE PORTRAIT.]

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                                  THE


                              DEAD LETTER:


                          AN AMERICAN ROMANCE.


                          BY SEELEY REGESTER.




                               NEW YORK:
                          BEADLE AND COMPANY,
                         _118 WILLIAM STREET_.
                                 1867.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




       Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by
                          BEADLE AND COMPANY.

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
                     Southern District of New York.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           CONTENTS--PART I.


                               CHAPTER I.

         THE LETTER,                                           9


                              CHAPTER II.

         EVENTS OF A NIGHT,                                   11


                              CHAPTER III.

         THE FIGURE BENEATH THE TREES,                        23


                              CHAPTER IV.

         MORELAND VILLA,                                      34


                               CHAPTER V.

         MR. BURTON, THE DETECTIVE,                           49


                              CHAPTER VI.

         TWO LINKS IN THE CHAIN,                              72


                              CHAPTER VII.

         ELEANOR,                                             86


                             CHAPTER VIII.

         THE HAUNTED GRAVE,                                   94


                              CHAPTER IX.

         THE SPIDER AND THE FLY,                             114


                               CHAPTER X.

         THE ANNIVERSARY,                                    132


                              CHAPTER XI.

         THE LITTLE GUEST AND THE APPARITION,                154


                              CHAPTER XII.

         THE NIGHT IN MORELAND VILLA,                        176


                             CHAPTER XIII.

         THE SHADOW ASSUMES SHAPE,                           188

                                PART II.

                               CHAPTER I.

         THE LETTER,                                         199


                              CHAPTER II.

         OUR VISITS,                                         212


                              CHAPTER III.

         THE CONFESSION,                                     228


                              CHAPTER IV.

         EMBARKED FOR CALIFORNIA,                            243


                               CHAPTER V.

         ON THE TRAIL,                                       252


                              CHAPTER VI.

         AT LAST--AT LAST,                                   261


                              CHAPTER VII.

         NOW FOR HOME AGAIN,                                 278


                             CHAPTER VIII.

         THE RIPE HOUR,                                      383


                              CHAPTER IX.

         JOINING THE MISSING LINKS,                          296


                               CHAPTER X.

         THE NEW LIFE,                                       305


                             ILLUSTRATIONS.

               BAFFLED,                                 64

               ELEANOR,                                 90

               "WELL, HOW DO YOU LIKE MY LOOKS?"       161

               THE PORTRAIT--Frontispiece,             183

               IN THE OAK,                             223

               "I NEVER ACCUSED YOU,"                  297




                            THE DEAD LETTER.




                                PART I.




                               CHAPTER I.

                              THE 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 any thing 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 pin-cushion, or a book-mark, 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.

The letter which I held in my paralyzed fingers when they so abruptly
ceased their dexterous movements, was contained in a closely-sealed
envelope, yellowed by time, and directed in a peculiar hand to "John
Owen, Peekskill, New York," and the date on the stamp was "October
18th, 1857"--making the letter two years old. I know not what magnetism
passed from it, putting me, as the spiritualists say, _en rapport_ with
it; I had not yet cut the lappet; and the only thing I could fix upon
as the cause of my attraction was, that at the date indicated on the
envelope, I had been a resident of Blankville, twenty miles from
Peekskill--and something about that date!

Yet this was no excuse for my agitation; I was not of an inquisitive
disposition; nor did "John Owen" belong to the circle of my
acquaintance. I sat there with such a strange expression upon my face,
that one of my fellows, remarking my mood, exclaimed jestingly:

"What is it, Redfield? A check for a hundred thousand?"

"I am sure I don't know; I haven't opened it," I answered, at random;
and with this I cut the wrapper, impelled by some strongly-defined,
irresistible influence to read the time-stained sheet inclosed. It ran
in this wise:

  "DEAR SIR--It's too bad to disappoint you. Could not execute your
  order, as everybody concerned will discover. What a charming
  day!--good for taking a picture. That old friend I introduced you
  to won't tell tales, and you had not better bother yourself to
  visit him. The next time you find yourself in his arms, don't feel
  in his left-hand pocket for the broken tooth-pick which I lent him.
  He is welcome to it. If you're at the place of payment, I shan't be
  there, not having fulfilled the order, and having given up my
  emigration project, much against my will; so, govern yourself
  accordingly. Sorry your prospects are so poor, and believe me, with
  the greatest possible esteem,

                                       "Your disappointed NEGOTIATOR."

To explain why this brief epistle, neither lucid nor interesting in
itself, should affect me as it did, I must go back to the time at which
it was written.




                              CHAPTER II.

                           EVENTS OF A NIGHT.


It was late in the afternoon of a cloudy, windy autumn day, that I left
the office of John Argyll, Esq., in his company, to take tea and spend
the evening in his family. I was a law-student in the office, and was
favored with more than ordinary kindness by him, on account of a
friendship that had existed between him and my deceased father. When
young men, they had started out in life together, in equal
circumstances; one had died early, just as fortune began to smile; the
other lived to continue in well-earned prosperity. Mr. Argyll had never
ceased to take an interest in the orphan son of his friend. He had
aided my mother in giving me a collegiate education, and had taken me
into his office to complete my law studies. Although I did not board at
his house, I was almost like a member of the family. There was always a
place for me at his table, with liberty to come and go when I pleased.
This being Saturday, I was expected to go home with him, and stay over
Sunday if I liked.

We quickened our steps as a few large drops were sprinkled over us out
of the darkening clouds.

"It will be a rainy night," said Mr. Argyll.

"It may clear away yet," I said, looking toward a rift in the west,
through which the declining sun was pouring a silver stream. He shook
his head doubtfully, and we hurried up the steps into the house, to
escape the threatened drenching.

Entering the parlors, we found no one but James, a nephew of Mr.
Argyll, a young man of about my own age, lounging upon a sofa.

"Where are the girls?"

"They haven't descended from the heavenly regions yet, uncle."

"Dressing themselves to death, I expect--it's Saturday evening, I
remember," smiled the indulgent father, passing on into the library.

I sat down by the west window, and looked out at the coming storm. I
did not like James Argyll much, nor he me; so that, as much as we were
thrown together, our intercourse continued constrained. On this
occasion, however, he seemed in excellent spirits, persisting in
talking on all kinds of indifferent subjects despite of my brief
replies. I was wondering when Eleanor would make her appearance.

At last she came. I heard her silk dress rustle down the stairs, and my
eyes were upon her when she entered the room. She was dressed with
unusual care, and her face wore a brilliant, expectant smile. The smile
was for neither of us. Perhaps James thought of it; I am sure I