obtrusion of myself upon this petted darling of fortune, I withdrew as
much as possible into the shadow, receiving for my reward a short look
from both the brothers; the one politely deprecating in its saturnine
courtesy, the other full of a bitter demand for what I in my selfish
egotism was fain to consider sympathy. The last look did not tend to
calm my already disturbed thoughts, and, anxious to efface its
impression, I impulsively descended the stairs and strolled out on the
lawn, asking myself what was meant by the difference in manner which I
had discerned in these two brothers towards their sister. For while the
whole bearing of the younger had expressed interest in this pretty,
careless butterfly of a woman thus brought suddenly face to face with a
grave trouble, the elder had only averted looks to offer, and an arm
that seemed to shrink at her touch as if the weight of her light hand
on his was almost more than he could bear. Could it be that affection
and generosity were on the side of the younger after all, and that in
this respect, at least, he was the truer man and more considerate
brother?
I could find no more satisfactory answer for this question than for the
many others that had suggested themselves since I had been in this
house; and being determined not to allow myself to fall into a reverie
which at this moment might be dangerous, I gave up consideration of all
kinds, and yielded myself wholly to the pleasure of my ramble. And it
was a pleasure! For however solemn and austere might be the interior of
the Pollard mansion, without here on the lawn all was cheeriness,
bloom, and verdure; the grim row of cedars encircling the house seeming
to act as a barrier beyond which its gloom and secrecy could not pass.
At all events such was the impression given to my excited fancy at the
time, and, filled with the sense of freedom which this momentary escape
from the house and its influences had caused, I hastened to enjoy the
beauties of walk and _parterre_, stopping only when some fairer blossom
than ordinary lured me from my path to inspect its loveliness or inhale
its perfume.
The grounds were not large, though, situated as they were in the midst
of a thickly populated district, they appeared so. It did not,
therefore, take me long to exhaust their attractions, and I was about
to return upon my course, when I espied a little summer-house before
me, thickly shrouded in vines. Thinking what a charming retreat it
offered, I stepped forward to observe it more closely, when to my great
surprise I saw it was already occupied, and by a person whose attitude
and appearance were such as to at once arouse my strongest curiosity.
This person was a boy, slight of build, and fantastic in his dress,
with a face like sculptured marble, and an eye which, if a little
contracted, had a strange glitter in it that made you look and look
again. He was kneeling on the floor of the summer-house, and his face,
seen by me in profile, was turned with the fixedness of an extreme
absorption towards a small opening in the vines, through which he was
intently peering. What he saw or wished to see I could not imagine, for
nothing but the blank end of the house lay before him, and there could
be very little which was interesting in that, for not one of its
windows were open, unless you except the solitary one in my room. His
expression, however, showed that he was engaged in watching something,
and by the corrugation in his white brow and the peculiar compression
of his fresh red lip, that something showed itself to be of great
importance to him; a fact striking enough in itself if you consider the
earliness of the hour and the apparent immaturity of his age, which did
not appear to be more than fourteen.
Resolved to solve this simple mystery, I gave an admonitory cough, and
stepped into the summer-house. He at once started to his feet, and
faced me with a look I am pondering upon yet, there was so much in it
that was wrathful, curious, dismayed, and defiant. The next moment a
veil seemed to fall over his vision, the rich red lip relaxed from its
expressive curve, and from being one of the most startling visions I
ever saw, he became--what? It would be hard to tell, only not a fully
responsible being, I am sure, however near he had just strayed to the
border-land of judgment and good sense. Relieved, I scarcely knew why,
and remembering almost at the same instant some passing gossip I had
once heard about the pretty imbecile boy that ran the streets of S----,
I gave him a cheerful smile, and was about to bestow some encouraging
word upon him, when he suddenly broke into a laugh, and looking at me
with a meaningless stare, asked:
"Who are you?"
I was willing enough to answer, so I returned: "I am Constance
Sterling"; and almost immediately added: "And who are you?"
"I am the cat that mews in the well." Then suddenly, "Do you live here?"
"No," I replied, "I am only staying here. Mrs. Pollard is sick--"
"Do they like you?"
The interruption was quick, like all his speech, and caused me a
curious sensation. But I conquered it with a laugh, and cheerily
replied:
"As I only came last night, it would be hard to say"--and was going to
add more, when the curious being broke out:
"She only came last night!" and, repeating the phrase again and again,
suddenly darted from my side on to the lawn, where he stood for an
instant, murmuring and laughing to himself before speeding away through
the shrubbery that led to the gate.
This incident, trivial as it seemed, made a vivid impression upon me,
and it was with a mind really calmed from its past agitation that I
re-entered the house and took up my watch in the sick-room. I found
every thing as I had left it an hour or so before, with the exception
of my companion; the younger Mr. Pollard having taken the place of his
brother. Mrs. Harrington was nowhere to be seen, but as breakfast had
been announced I did not wonder at this, nor at the absence of the
elder son, who was doubtless engaged in doing the honors of the house.
My own call to breakfast came sooner than I anticipated; soon enough,
indeed, for me to expect to find Mr. Pollard and his sister still at
the table. It therefore took some courage for me to respond to the
summons, especially as I had to go alone, my companion, of course,
refusing to leave his mother. But a glance in the hall-mirror, as I
went by, encouraged me, for it was no weak woman's face I encountered,
and if Mrs. Harrington was as beautiful as she was haughty, and as
haughty as she was beautiful, Constance Sterling at least asked no
favors and showed no embarrassment. Indeed, I had never felt more
myself than when I lifted the _portiere_ from before the dining-room
door and stepped in under the gaze of these two contradictory beings,
either of which exerted an influence calculated to overawe a person in
my position. The past----But what have I promised myself and you? Not
the past, then, but my present will and determination made the ordeal
easy.
Mr. Pollard, who is certainly a man to attract any woman's eye, rose
gravely as I approached, and presented me with what struck me as a
somewhat emphasized respect, to his sister. Her greeting was nothing
more nor less than what I expected--that is, indifferently
civil,--though I thought I detected a little glimmer of curiosity in
the corner of her eye, as if some words had passed in regard to me that
made her anxious to know what sort of a woman I was.
But my faculty for observation was very wide-awake that morning, and I
may have imagined this, especially as she did not look at me again till
she had finished her breakfast and rose to quit the room. Then, indeed,
she threw me a hurried glance, half searching, half doubtful in its
character, as if she hesitated whether she ought to leave us alone
together. Instantly a wild thrill passed through me, and I came
perilously near blushing. But the momentary emotion, if emotion it
could be called, was soon lost in the deeper feeling which ensued when
Mrs. Harrington, pausing at the door, observed, with a forced lightness:
"By-the-way, where is Mr. Barrows? I thought he was always on hand in
time of trouble."
I looked at her; somehow, I dared not look at her brother; and, while
making to myself such trivial observations as, "She has not been told
the truth," and, "They took good care she should overhear no gossip at
the station," I was inwardly agitating myself with the new thought,
"Can _she_ have had any thing to do with Mr. Barrows? Can she be the
woman he was engaged to before he fell in love with Ada?"
The expression of her face, turned though
It was full upon us, told nothing, and my attention, though not my
glances, passed to Mr. Pollard, who, motionless in his place, hesitated
what reply to give to this simple question.
"Guy has not told you, then," said he, "what caused the shock that has
prostrated our mother?"
"No," she returned, coming quickly back.
"It was the news of Mr. Barrows' death, Agnes; the servants say so, and
the servants ought to know."
"Mr. Barrows' death! Is Mr. Barrows dead, then?" she asked, in a tone
of simple wonder, which convinced me that my surmise of a moment ago
was without any foundation. "I did not know he was sick," she went on.
"Was his death sudden, that it should affect mother so?"
A short nod was all her brother seemed to be able to give to this
question. At sight of it I felt the cold chills run through my veins,
and wished that fate had not obliged me to be present at this
conversation.
"How did Mr. Barrows die?" queried Mrs. Harrington, after waiting in
manifest surprise and impatience for her brother to speak.
"He was drowned."
"Drowned?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
"Where?"
This time the answer was not forthcoming. Was it because he knew the
place too well? I dared not lift my eyes to see.
"Was it in the mill-stream?" she asked.
This time he uttered a hollow "No." Then, as if he felt himself too
weak to submit to this cross-questioning, he pushed back his chair,
and, hurriedly rising, said:
"It is a very shocking affair, Agnes. Mr. Barrows was found in a vat in
the cellar of the old mill. He drowned _himself._ No one knows his
motive."
"Drowned _himself?_" Did she speak or I? I saw her lips move, and I
heard the words uttered as I thought in her voice; but it was to me he
directed his look, and to me he seemed to reply:
"Yes; how else account for the circumstances? Is he a man to have
enemies?--or is that a place a man would be likely to seek for
pleasure?"
"But--" the trembling little woman at my side began.
"I say it is a suicide," he broke in, imperiously, giving his sister
one look, and then settling his eyes back again upon my face. "No other
explanation fits the case, and no other explanation will ever be given.
Why he should have committed such a deed," he went on, in a changed
voice, and after a momentary pause, "it would be impossible for me, and
perhaps for any other man, to say; but that he did do it is evident,
and that is all I mean to assert. The rest I leave for wiser heads than
mine." And turning from me with an indescribable look that to my
reason, if not to my head, seemed to belie his words, he offered his
arm to his bewildered sister and quietly led her towards the door.
The breath of relief I gave as the _portiere_ closed behind them was,
however, premature, for scarcely had he seen her on her way upstairs
than he came back, and taking his stand directly before me, said:
"You and I do not agree on this question; I see it in your eyes. Now
what explanation do you give of Mr. Barrows' death?"
The suddenness of the attack brought the blood to my cheeks, while the
necessity of answering drove it as quickly away. He saw I was agitated,
and a slight tremble--it could not be called a smile--disturbed the set
contour of his lips. The sight of it gave me courage. I let my own curl
as I replied:
"You do me too much honor to ask my opinion. But since you wish to know
what I think, I consider it only justice to say that it would be easier
for an unprejudiced mind to believe that Mr. Barrows had a secret
enemy, or that his death was owing to some peculiar and perhaps
unexplainable accident, than that he should seek it himself, having, as
he did, every reason for living."
"He was very happy, then?" murmured my companion, looking for an
instant away, as if he could not bear the intensity of my gaze.
"He loved deeply a noble woman; they were to have been married in a
month; does that look like happiness?" I asked.
The roving eye came back, fixed itself upon me, and turned dangerously
dark and deep.
"It _looks_ like it," he emphasized, and a strange smile passed over
his lips, the utter melancholy of which was all that was plain to me.
"And it _was_!" I persisted, determined not to yield an iota of my
convictions to the persuasiveness of this man. "The woman who knew him
best declared it to be so as she was dying; and I am forced to trust in
her judgment, whatever the opinion of others may be."
"But happy men----" he began.
"Sometimes meet with accidents," I completed.
"And your credulity is sufficient to allow you to consider Mr. Barrows'
death as the result of accident?"
Lightly as the question was put, I felt that nothing but a deep anxiety
had prompted it, else why that earnest gaze from which my own could not
falter, or that white line showing about the lip he essayed in vain to
steady? Recoiling inwardly, though I scarcely knew why, I forced myself
to answer with the calmness of an inquisitor:
"My credulity is not sufficient for me to commit myself to that belief.
If investigation should show that Mr. Barrows had an enemy----"
"Mr. Barrows had no enemy!" flashed from Mr. Pollard's lips. "I mean,"
he explained, with instant composure, "that he was not a man to awaken
jealousy or antagonism; that, according to all accounts, he had the
blessing, and not the cursing, of each man in the community."
"Yes," I essayed.
"He never came to his death through the instrumentality of another
person," broke in Mr. Pollard, with a stern insistence. "He fell into
the vat intentionally or unintentionally, but no man put him there. Do
you believe me, Miss Sterling?"
Did I believe him? Was he upon trial, then, and was he willing I should
see he understood it? No, no, that could not be; yet why asseverate so
emphatically a fact of which no man could be sure unless he had been
present at the scene of death, or at least known more of the
circumstances attending it than was compatible with the perfect
ignorance which all men professed to have of them. Did he not see that
such words were calculated to awaken suspicion, and that it would be
harder, after such a question, to believe he spoke from simple
conviction, than from a desire to lead captive the will of a woman
whose intuitions, his troubled conscience told him, were to be feared?
Rising, as an intimation that the conversation was fast becoming
insupportable to me, I confronted him with my proudest look.
"You must excuse me," said I, "if I do not linger to discuss a matter
whose consequences just now are more important to us than the fact
itself. While your mother lies insensible I cannot rest comfortable
away from her side. You will therefore allow me to return to her."
"In a moment," he replied. "There are one or two questions it would
please me to have you answer first." And his manner took on a charm
that robbed his words of all peremptoriness, and made it difficult, if
not impossible, for me to move. "You have spoken of Miss Reynolds," he
resumed; "have told me that she declared upon her dying bed that the
relations between Mr. Barrows and herself were very happy. Were you
with her then? Did you know her well?"
"She was my room-mate," I returned.
It was a blow; I saw it, though not a muscle of his face quivered. He
had not expected to hear that I was upon terms of intimacy with her.
"I loved her," I went on, with a sense of cruel pleasure that must have
sprung from the inward necessity I felt to struggle with this strong
nature. "The proof that she loved me lies in the fact that she has made
me heir to all her little savings. We were friends," I added, seeing he
was not yet under sufficient control to speak.
"I see," he now said, moving involuntarily between me and the door.
"And by friends you mean confidantes, I presume?"
"Perhaps," I answered, coolly, dropping my eyes.
His voice took a deeper tone; it was steel meeting steel, he saw.
"And she told you Mr. Barrows was happy?"
"That has been already discussed," said I.
"Miss Sterling"--I think I never heard such music in a human
voice--"you think me inquisitive, presuming, ungentlemanly, persistent,
perhaps. But I have a great wish to know the truth about this matter,
if only to secure myself from forming false impressions and wrongfully
influencing others by them. Bear with me, then, strangers though we
are, and if you feel you can trust me"--here he forced me to look at
him,--"let me hear, I pray, what reasons you have for declaring so
emphatically that Mr. Barrows did not commit suicide?"
"My reasons, Mr. Pollard? Have I not already given them to you? Is it
necessary for me to repeat them?"
"No," he earnestly rejoined, charming me, whether I would or not, by
the subtle homage he infused into his look, "if you will assure me that
you have no others--that the ones you have given form the sole
foundation for your conclusions. Will you?" he entreated; and while his
eyes demanded the truth, his lip took a curve which it would have been
better for me not to have seen if I wished to preserve unmoved my
position as grand inquisitor.
I was compelled, or so it seemed to me, to answer without reserve. I
therefore returned a quiet affirmative, adding only in qualification of
the avowal, "What other reasons were necessary?"
"None, none," was the quick reply, "for _you_ to believe as you do. A
woman but proves her claim to our respect when she attaches such
significance to the master-passion as to make it the argument of a
perfect happiness."
I do not think he spoke in sarcasm, though to most minds it might
appear so. I think he spoke in relief, a joyous relief, that was less
acceptable to me at that moment than the sarcasm would have been. I
therefore did not blush, but rather grew pale, as with a bow I
acknowledged his words, and took my first step towards the doorway.
"I have wounded you," he murmured, softly, following me.
"You do not know me well enough," I answered, turning with a sense of
victory in the midst of my partial defeat.
"It is a misfortune that can be remedied," he smiled.
"Your brother waits for us," I suggested, and, lifting the _portiere_
out of his hand, I passed through, steady as a dart, but quaking, oh,
how fearfully quaking within! for this interview had not only confirmed
me in my belief that something dark and unknown connected the life of
this household with that which had suddenly gone out in the vat at the
old mill, but deepened rather than effaced the fatal charm which,
contrary to every instinct of my nature, held me in a bondage that more
than all things else must make any investigation into this mystery a
danger and a pain from which any woman might well recoil, even though
she bore in her heart memories of a past like mine.
VI.
MRS. POLLARD.
My mind she has mated, and amazed my sight;
I think but dare not speak.
--MACBETH.
That day was a marked one in my life. It was not only the longest I
have ever known, but it was by far the dreariest, and, if I may use the
word in this connection, the most unearthly. Indeed, I cannot think of
it to this day without a shudder; its effect being much the same upon
my memory as that of a vigil in some underground tomb, where each
moment was emphasized with horror lest the dead lying before me might
stir beneath their cerements and wake. The continual presence of one or
both of the brothers at my side did not tend to alleviate the dread
which the silence, the constant suspense, the cold gloom of the ever
dimly-lighted chamber were calculated to arouse; for the atmosphere of
unreality and gloom was upon them too, and, saving the quick, short
sigh that escaped from their lips now and then, neither of them spoke
nor relaxed for an instant from that strain of painful attention which
had for its focus their mother's stony face. Mrs. Harrington, who, in
her youthful freshness and dimpled beauty, might have relieved the
universal sombreness of the scene, was not in the room all day; but
whether this was on account of her inability to confront sickness and
trouble, or whether it was the result of the wishes of her brothers, I
have never been able to decide; probably the latter, for, though she
was a woman of frivolous mind, she had a due sense of the proprieties,
and was never known to violate them except under the stress of another
will more powerful than her own.
At last, as the day waned, and what light there was gradually vanished
from the shadowy chamber, Guy made a movement of discouragement, and,
rising from his place, approached his brother, dropped a word in his
ear, and quietly left the room. The relief I felt was instantaneous. It
was like having one coil of an oppressive nightmare released from my
breast. Dwight, on the contrary, who had sat like a statue ever since
the room began to darken, showed no evidence of being influenced by
this change, and, convinced that any movement towards a more cheerful
order of things must come from me, I rose, and, without consulting his
wishes, dropped the curtains and lighted the lamp. The instant I had
done so I saw why he was so silent and immovable. Overcome by fatigue,
and possibly by a long strain of suppressed emotion, he had fallen
asleep, and, ignorant of the fact that Guy had left the room, slumbered
as peacefully as if no break had occurred in the mysterious watch they
had hitherto so uninterruptedly maintained over their mother and me.
The peacefulness of his sleeping face made a deep impression upon me.
Though I knew that with his waking the old look would come back, it was
an indescribable pleasure to me to see him, if but for an instant, free
from that shadowy something which dropped a vail of mistrust between
us. It seemed to show me that evil was not innate in this man, and
explained, if it did not justify, the weakness which had made me more
lenient to what was doubtful in his appearance and character than I had
been to that of his equally courteous but less attractive brother.
The glances I allowed myself to cast in his direction were fleeting
enough, however. Even if womanly delicacy had not forbidden me to look
too often and too long that way, the sense of the unfair advantage I
was possibly taking of his weakness made the possibility of
encountering his waking eye a matter of some apprehension. I knew that
honor demanded I should rouse him, that he would not thank me for
letting him sleep after his brother had left the room; and yet, whether
from too much heart--he was in such sore need of rest--or from too
little conscience--I was in such sore need of knowledge--I let him
slumber on, and never made so much as a move after my first startled
discovery of his condition.
And so five minutes, ten minutes, went by, and, imperceptibly to
myself, the softening influence which his sleeping countenance exerted
upon me deepened and strengthened till I began to ask if I had not
given too much scope to my imagination since I had been in this house,
and foolishly attributed a meaning to expressions and events that in my
calmer moments would show themselves to possess no special significance.
The probability was that I had, and once allowing myself to admit this
idea, it is astonishing how rapidly it gained possession of my
judgment, altering the whole tenor of my thoughts, and if not exactly
transforming the situation into one of cheerfulness and ease, at least
robbing it of much of that sepulchral character which had hitherto made
it so nearly unbearable to me. The surroundings, too, seemed to partake
of the new spirit of life which had seized me. The room looked less
shadowy, and lost some of that element of mystery which had made its
dimly seen corners the possible abode of supernatural visitants. Even
the clock ticked less lugubriously, and that expressionless face on the
pillow--