The Gerrard Street Mystery and Other Weird Tales | Page 5

take them altogether by
surprise.
The morning of the 11th of October found me on board the Southern
Cross, where I shook hands with Mr. Redpath and several other friends
who accompanied me on board for a last farewell. The particulars of
the voyage to England are not pertinent to the story, and may be given
very briefly. I took the Red Sea route, and arrived at Marseilles about
two o'clock in the afternoon of the 29th of November. From Marseilles
I travelled by rail to Calais, and so impatient was I to reach my
journey's end without loss of time, that I did not even stay over to
behold the glories of Paris. I had a commission to execute in London,
which, however, delayed me there only a few hours, and I hurried down
to Liverpool, in the hope of catching the Cunard Steamer for New York.
I missed it by about two hours, but the Persia was detailed to start on a
special trip to Boston on the following day. I secured a berth, and at
eight o'clock the next morning steamed out of the Mersey on my way
homeward.
The voyage from Liverpool to Boston consumed fourteen days. All I
need say about it is, that before arriving at the latter port I formed an
intimate acquaintance with one of the passengers--Mr. Junius H.

Gridley, a Boston merchant, who was returning from a hurried business
trip to Europe. He was--and is--a most agreeable companion. We were
thrown together a good deal during the voyage, and we then laid the
foundation of a friendship which has ever since subsisted between us.
Before the dome of the State House loomed in sight he had extracted a
promise from me to spend a night with him before pursuing my journey.
We landed at the wharf in East Boston on the evening of the 17th of
December, and I accompanied him to his house on West Newton Street,
where I remained until the following morning. Upon consulting the
time-table, we found that the Albany express would leave at 11.30 a.m.
This left several hours at my disposal, and we sallied forth immediately
after breakfast to visit some of the lions of the American Athens.
In the course of our peregrinations through the streets, we dropped into
the post-office, which had recently been established in the Merchants'
Exchange Building, on State Street. Seeing the countless piles of
mail-matter, I jestingly remarked to my friend that there seemed to be
letters enough there to go around the whole human family. He replied
in the same mood, whereupon I banteringly suggested the probability
that among so many letters, surely there ought to be one for me.
"Nothing more reasonable," he replied. "We Bostonians are always
bountiful to strangers. Here is the General Delivery, and here is the
department where letters addressed to the Furlong family are kept in
stock. Pray inquire for yourself."
The joke I confess was not a very brilliant one; but with a grave
countenance I stepped up to the wicket and asked the young lady in
attendance:
"Anything for W. F. Furlong?"
She took from a pigeon-hole a handful of correspondence, and
proceeded to run her eye over the addresses. When about half the pile
had been exhausted she stopped, and propounded the usual inquiry in
the case of strangers:
"Where do you expect letters from?"

"From Toronto," I replied.
To my no small astonishment she immediately handed me a letter,
bearing the Toronto post-mark. The address was in the peculiar and
well-known handwriting of my uncle Richard.
Scarcely crediting the evidence of my senses I tore open the envelope,
and read as follows:--

"TORONTO, 9th December, 1861.
"MY DEAR WILLIAM--I am so glad to know that you are coming
home so much sooner than you expected when you wrote last, and that
you will eat your Christmas dinner with us. For reasons which you will
learn when you arrive, it will not be a very merry Christmas at our
house, but your presence will make it much more bearable than it
would be without you. I have not told Alice that you are coming. Let it
be a joyful surprise for her, as some compensation for the sorrows she
has had to endure lately. You needn't telegraph. I will meet you at the G.
W. R. station.
"Your affectionate uncle, "RICHARD YARDINGTON."
"Why, what's the matter?" asked my friend, seeing the blank look of
surprise on my face. "Of course the letter is not for you; why on earth
did you open it?"
"It is for me," I answered. "See here, Gridley, old man; have you been
playing me a trick? If you haven't, this is the strangest thing I ever
knew in my life."
Of course he hadn't been