A DANGEROUS LETTER.
There are some men who seem to be utterly destitute of principle.
These are the men who in cold blood show themselves guilty of the
most appalling crimes if their interest requires it. They are more
detestable than those who, a prey to strong passion, are hurried into
the commission of acts which in their cooler moments they deeply regret.
To the first class belonged Mr. Kenyon, who, as we have already seen,
had committed his wife to the horrible confinement of a mad-house that
he might be free to spend her fortune. Hitherto he had not injured
Oliver, though he had made his life uncomfortable; but the time was
coming when our hero would be himself in peril. It was because he
foresaw that Oliver might need to be removed that he began to treat
him with unusual indulgence.
"Should anything happen," he said to himself, "this will disarm
suspicion."
The time came sooner than he anticipated. Action was precipitated by
a most unlooked for occurrence, which filled the soul of the guilty
husband with terror.
One day he stopped at the post-office to enquire for letters.
"There is no letter for you, Mr. Kenyon, but here is one for Oliver.
Will you take it?"
Mr. Kenyon was curious to learn with whom his step-son corresponded,
and said:
"Yes, I will take it."
It was put into his hands. No sooner did he scan the handwriting and
the postmark than he turned actually livid.
It was in the handwriting of his wife, whom all the world supposed to
be dead, and it was postmarked Charleston.
"Good Heavens! What a narrow escape!" he ejaculated, the perspiration
standing in large drops on his brow. "Suppose Oliver had received this
letter, I might have been lynched. I must go home and consider what is
to be done. How could Dr. Fox be so criminally--idiotically careless as
to suffer such a letter to leave his establishment?"
Mr. Kenyon hurried home, much perturbed.
On the way he met Roland, who could not help observing his father's
agitation.
"What is the matter, father?" he enquired carelessly, for he cared very
little for anyone but himself.
"I have a sick headache," said his father abruptly. "I am going home to
lie down."
Roland made no further enquiries, and Mr. Kenyon gained the house
without any other encounter.
He went up to his own room and locked himself in. Then he took out his
pocket-knife and cut open the envelope. The letter was as follows:
MY DEAR OLIVER:
This letter is from your unhappy mother, who is languishing in a
private mad-house, the victim of your step-father's detestable
machinations. Oh, Oliver, how can I reveal to you the hypocrisy and
the baseness of that man, whom in an evil hour I accepted as the
successor of your dear father. It was not because I loved him, but
rather because of his importunity, that I yielded my assent to his
proposals. I did not know his character then. I did not know, as I do
now, that he only wanted to secure my property. He professed himself
to be wealthy, but I have reason to think that in this, as in other
things, he deceived me.
When we came South he pretended that it was on account of his health,
and I unsuspectingly fell into the snare. I need not dwell upon the
details of that journey. Enough that he lured me here and placed me
under the charge of a Dr. Fox, a fitting tool of his, under the plea
that I was insane.
I am given to understand that on his return to the North Mr. Kenyon
represented me as dead. Such is his art that I do not doubt his story
has been believed. Perhaps you, my dearest son, have mourned for me
as dead. If this be so, my letter will be a revelation. I have been
trying for a long time to get an opportunity to write you, but this is
the first time I have met with success. I do not yet know if I can get
it safely to the mail, but that is my hope.
When you receive this letter consult with friends whom you can trust,
and be guided by their advice. Do what you can to rescue me from this
living death. Do not arouse the suspicions of Mr. Kenyon if you can
avoid it. He is capable of anything.
My dear son, my paper is exhausted, and I dare not write more, at any
rate, lest I should be interrupted and detected. Heaven bless you and
restore you to my longing sight.
Your loving mother,
MARGARET CONRAD.
Mr. Kenyon's face darkened, especially when his attention was drawn to
the signature.
"Conrad! So she discards my name!" he muttered. "Fortunately the object
of this accursed letter will not be attained, nor will Oliver have an
opportunity of making mischief by showing it to the neighbors."
Mr. Kenyon lighted a candle and deliberately held the dangerous letter
in the flame till it was consumed.
"There," he said, breathing a sigh of relief, "that peril is over. But
suppose she should write another?"
Again his face wore an expression of nervous apprehension.
"I must write to Dr. Fox at once," he mused, "and warn him to keep
close guard over his patient. Otherwise I may have to dread an
explosion at any time."
He threw himself into an easy chair and began to think over the
situation.
The man was alert and watchful. Danger was at hand, and he resolved to
head it off at any hazard.
Meanwhile Oliver had occasion to pass the post-office on his way
home from school. Thinking there might be a letter or paper for his
step-father, he entered and made enquiry.
"Is there anything for us, Mr. Herman?" he said.
"No," said the postmaster, adding jocularly: "Isn't one letter a day
enough for you?"
"I have received no letter," answered Oliver, rather surprised.
"I gave a letter to Mr. Kenyon for you this morning."
"Oh, I haven't been home from school yet," said Oliver. "I suppose it
is waiting for me there."
"Very likely. It looked to be in a lady's handwriting," added the
postmaster, disposed to banter Oliver, who was a favorite with him.
"I can't think who can have written it, then," said our hero.
At first he thought it might be from an intimate boy friend of about
his own age, but the postmaster's remark seemed to render that
unlikely.
We all like to receive letters, however disinclined we may be to answer
them. Oliver was no exception in this respect. His desire to see the
letter was increased by his being quite unable to conjecture who could
have written to him in a feminine handwriting. As soon, therefore, as
he reached home, he enquired for Mr. Kenyon.
"He's in his room, Mr. Oliver," said the servant.
"Did he leave any letter for me, Maggie?"
"I didn't hear of any, Mr. Oliver."
"Then he's got it upstairs, I suppose."
Oliver went up the stairs and knocked at Mr. Kenyon's door. The latter
had now recovered his wonted composure, and called out to him to enter.
"I heard you had a letter for me, Mr. Kenyon," said Oliver abruptly.
Again Mr. Kenyon looked disturbed. He had hoped that Oliver would hear
nothing of it, and that no enquiry might be made.
"Who told you I had a letter for you?"
"The postmaster."
Mr. Kenyon saw that it was useless to deny it.
"Yes, I believe there was one," he said carelessly. "Where could I have
put it?"
He began to search his pockets; then he looked into the drawers of his
desk.
"I don't remember laying it down," he said slowly. "In fact, I don't
remember seeing it since I got home. I may have dropped it in the road."
"Won't you oblige me by looking again, sir?" asked Oliver, disappointed.
Mr. Kenyon looked again, but, of course, in vain.
"It may turn up," he said at length. "Not that it was of any
importance. It looked like a circular."
"Mr. Herman told me it was in feminine handwriting," said Oliver.
"Oho! that accounts for your anxiety!" said Mr. Kenyon, with affected
jocularity, "Come, I'll look again."
But the letter was not found.
Oliver did not fail to notice something singular in his step-father's
manner.
"Has he suppressed my letter?" he asked himself, as he slowly retired
from the room. "What does it all mean?"
"He suspects me," muttered Mr. Kenyon, "He is in my way, and I must get
rid of him."