reparation I have sought to make. Weaker than most men, I have
submitted to your will, Margaret, up to this hour, but your reign is
over at last, and--and--" The passionate words died away, the feverish
energy succumbed, and with one last look into my face, Samuel Pollard
fell back upon his pillow, dead.
XIX.
A FATAL DELAY.
Would'st thou have that
Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life,
And live a coward in thine own esteem,
Letting "I dare not," wait upon "I would,"
Like the poor cat i' the adage?
--MACBETH.
He was to all appearance immediately forgotten. As with mutual consent
we all turned and faced each other, Mrs. Pollard with a stern,
inexorable look in her dark eye, which, while it held me enchained,
caused me to involuntarily lay my hand upon the document which I had
hidden in my breast She noticed the movement, and smiled darkly with a
sidelong look at her son. The smile and the look affected me strangely.
In them I seemed to detect something deeper than hatred and baffled
rage, and when in a moment later her son responded to her glance by
quietly withdrawing from the room, I felt such revolt against their
secrecy that for a moment I was tempted to abandon an undertaking that
promised to bring me in conflict with passions of so deep and
unrelenting a nature.
But the impression which the pain and despair of my dead friend had
made upon me was as yet too recent for me to yield to my first
momentary apprehensions; and summoning up what resolution I possessed,
I took my leave of Mrs. Pollard, and was hastening towards the door,
when her voice, rising cold and clear, arrested me.
"You think, then, that it is your duty to carry this paper from the
house, Mr. Barrows?"
"Yes, madam, I do," was my short reply.
"In spite of my protest and that of my son?"
"Yes, madam."
"Then upon your head be the consequences!" she exclaimed, and turned
her back upon me with a look which went with me as I closed the door
between us; lending a gloom to the unlighted halls and sombre
staircases that affected me almost with an impulse of fear.
I dreaded crossing to where the stairs descended; I dreaded going down
them into the darkness which I saw below. Not that I anticipated actual
harm, but that I felt I was in the house of those who longed to see me
the victim of it; and my imagination being more than usually alert, I
even found myself fancying the secret triumph with which Guy Pollard
would hail an incautious slip on my part, that would precipitate me
from the top to the bottom of this treacherous staircase. That he was
somewhere between me and the front door, I felt certain. The deadly
quiet behind and before me seemed to assure me of this; and, ashamed as
I was of the impulse that moved me, I could not prevent myself from
stepping cautiously as I prepared to descend, saying as some sort of
excuse to myself: "He is capable of seeing me trip without assistance,"
and as my imagination continued its work: "He is even capable of
putting out his foot to help forward such a catastrophe."
And, indeed, I now think that if this simple plan had presented itself
to his subtle mind, of stunning, if not disabling me, and thus making
it possible for them to obtain his father's will without an open
assault, he would not have hesitated to embrace it. But he evidently
did not calculate, as I did, the chances of such an act, or perhaps he
felt that I was likely to be too much upon my guard to fall a victim to
this expedient, for I met no one as I advanced, and was well down the
stairs and on my way to the front door, before I perceived any signs of
life in the sombre house. Then a sudden glare of light across my path
betrayed the fact that a door had been swung wide in a certain short
passage that opened ahead of me; and while I involuntarily stopped, a
shadow creeping along the further wall of that passage warned me that
some one--I could not doubt it to be Guy Pollard--had come out to meet
me.
The profound stillness, and the sudden pause which the shadow made as I
inconsiderately stumbled in my hesitation, assured me that I was right
in attributing a sinister motive to this encounter. Naturally,
therefore, I drew back, keeping my eyes upon the shadow. It did not
move. Convinced now that danger of some kind lay ahead of me, I looked
behind and about me for some means of escaping from the house without
passing by my half-seen enemy. But none presented themselves. Either I
must slink away into the kitchen region--a proceeding from which my
whole manhood revolted,--or I must advance and face whatever evil
awaited me. Desperation drove me to the latter course. Making one
bound, I stood before that lighted passage. A slim, firm figure
confronted me; but it was not that of Guy, but of his older brother,
Dwight.
The surprise of the shock, together with a certain revelation which
came to me at the same moment, and of which I will speak hereafter,
greatly unnerved me. I had not been thinking of Dwight Pollard. Strange
as it may seem, I had not even missed him from the bedside of his
father. To see him, then, here and now, caused many thoughts to spring
into my mind, foremost among which was the important one as to whether
he was of a nature to lend himself to any scheme of violence. The
quickness with which I decided to the contrary proved to me in what
different estimation I had always held him from what I had his mother
and brother.
It was consequently no surprise to me when he leaned forward and spoke
to me with consideration and force. I was only surprised at a his words:
"Don't stop, Mr. Barrows," said he. "Go home at once; only"--and here
he paused, listened, then proceeded with increased emphasis, "don't go
by the way of Orchard Street." And without waiting for my reply, he
stepped back and noiselessly regained the apartment he had left, while
I, in a confusion of emotions difficult to analyze at the moment,
hastily accepted his advice, and withdrew from the house.
The relief of breathing the fresh air again was indescribable. If I had
not escaped the miasma and oppression of a prison, I certainly had left
behind me influences of darkness and sinister suggestion, which, in the
light of the calm moonbeams that I found flooding the world without,
had the effect upon me of a vanished horror. Only I was still haunted
by that last phrase which I had heard uttered, "Don't go by the way of
Orchard Street," an injunction which simply meant, "Don't go with that
document to the lawyer's to-night."
Now was this order, given as it was by Dwight Pollard, one of warning
or of simple threat? My good-will toward this especial member of the
Pollard family inclined me to think it the former.
There was danger, then, lurking for me somewhere on the road to Mr.
Nicholls' house. Was it my duty to encounter this danger? It appeared
to me not, especially as it was not necessary for me to acquit myself
so instantly of the commission with which I had been intrusted. I
accordingly proceeded directly home.
But once again in my familiar study, I became conscious of a strong
dissatisfaction with myself. Indeed, I may speak more forcibly and say
I was conscious of a loss of trust in my own manhood, which was at once
so new and startling that it was as if a line had been drawn between my
past and present. This was due to the discovery I had made at the
moment I had confronted Dwight Pollard--a discovery so humiliating in
its character that it had shaken me, body and soul. I had found in the
light of that critical instant that I, David Barrows, was _a coward!_
Yes, gloss it over as I would, the knowledge was deep in my mind that I
lacked manhood's most virile attribute; that peril, real or imaginary,
could awaken in me fear; and that the paling cheek and trembling limbs
of which I had been so bitterly conscious at that instant were but the
outward signs of a weakness that extended deep down into my soul.
It was a revelation calculated to stagger any man, how much more, then,
one who had so relied upon his moral powers as to take upon himself the
sacred name of minister. But this was not all. I had not only found
myself to be a coward, but I had shown myself such to another's eyes.
By the searching look which Dwight Pollard had given me before he
spoke, and the quiet, half-disdainful curve which his lips took at the
close of his scrutiny, I was convinced that he saw the defect in my
nature, and despised me for it, even while he condescended to offer me
the protection which my fears seemed to demand. Or--the thought could
come now that I was at home, and had escaped the dangers lying in wait
for me on the road to my duty--he had made use of my weakness to gain
his own ends. The carrying of that document to Mr. Nicholls meant loss
of property to them all perhaps, and he had but taken means, consistent
with his character, to insure the delay which his brother had possibly
planned to gain in some more reprehensible manner. And I had yielded to
my fears and let his will have its way. I hated myself as I considered
my own weakness. I could find no excuse either for my pusillanimity or
for that procrastination of my duty into which it had betrayed me. I
found I could not face my own scorn; and, rising from my study-chair, I
took my hat and went out. I had determined to make amends for my fault
by going at once to Orchard Street.
And I did; but alas! for the result! The half-hour I had lost was
fatal. To be sure I met with no adventure on my way, but I found Mr.
Nicholls out. He had been summoned by a telegram to Boston, and had
been absent from the house only fifteen minutes. I meditated following
him to the station, but the whistle sounded just as I turned away from
his door, and I knew I should be too late. Humiliated still further in
my own estimation, I went home to wait with what patience I could for
the two or three days which must elapse before his return.
Before I went to bed that night I opened the book which Mr. Pollard had
given me, in the expectation of finding a letter in it, or, at least,
some writing on the title-page or the blank pages of the book. But I
was disappointed in both regards. With the exception of some minute
pencil-marks scattered here and there along the text--indications,
doubtless, of favorite passages--I perceived nothing in the volume to
account for the extreme earnestness with which he had presented it.
XX.
THE OLD MILL.
Whither wilt thou lead me? speak; I'll go no farther.
--HAMLET.
I did not sleep well that night, but this did not prevent me from
beginning work early in the morning. The sermon I had been interrupted
in the afternoon before, had to be completed that day; and I was hard
at work upon it when there came a knock at my study-door. I arose with
any thing but alacrity and opened it. Dwight Pollard stood before me.
It was a surprise that called up a flush to my cheeks; but daylight was
shining upon this interview, and I knew none of those sensations which
had unnerved me the night before. I was simply on my guard, and saw him
seat himself in my own chair, without any other feeling than that of
curiosity as to the nature of his errand. He likewise was extremely
self-possessed, and looked at me calmly for some instants before
speaking.
"Last night," he began, "you refused a request which my mother made of
you."
I bowed.
"It was a mistake," he continued. "The paper which my father gave you
cannot be one which he in his right senses would wish seen by the
public. You should have trusted my mother, who knew my father much
better than you did."
"It was not a matter of trust," I protest. "A document had been given
me by I a dying man, with an injunction to put it into certain hands. I
had no choice but to fulfil his wishes in this regard. Your mother
herself would have despised me if I had yielded to her importunities
and left it behind me."
"My mother," he commenced.
"Your mother is your mother," I put in. "Let us have respect for her
widowhood, and leave her out of this conversation."
He looked at me closely, and I understood his glance.
"I cannot return you your father's will," I declared, firmly.
He held my glance with his.
"Have you it still?" he asked.
"I cannot return it to you," I repeated.
He arose and approached me courteously. "You are doing what you
consider to be your duty," said he. "In other words than my mother
used, I simply add, on _our_ heads must be the consequences." And his
grave look, at once half-sad and half-determined, impressed me for the
first time with a certain sort of sympathy for this unhappy family.
"And this leads me to the purpose of my call," he proceeded,
deferentially. "I am here at my mothers wish, and I bring you her
apologies. Though you have done and are doing wrong by your persistence
in carrying out my poor father's wishes to the detriment of his memory,
my mother regrets that she spoke to you in the manner she did, and
hopes you will not allow it to stand in the way of your conducting the
funeral services."
"Mr. Pollard," I replied, "your father was my friend, and to no other
man could I delegate the privilege of uttering prayers over his
remains. But I would not be frank to you nor true to myself if I did
not add that it will take more than an apology from your mother to
convince me that she wishes me well, or is, indeed, any thing but the
enemy her looks proclaimed her to be last night."
"I am sorry----" he began, but meeting my eye, stopped. "You possess a
moral courage which I envy you," he declared. And waiving the subject
of his mother, he proceeded to inform me concerning the funeral and the
arrangements which had been made.
I listened calmly. In the presence of this man I felt strong. Though he
knew the secret of my weakness, and possibly despised me for it, he
also knew what indeed he had just acknowledged, that in some respects I
was on a par with him.
The arrangements were soon made, and he took his leave without any
further allusion to personal matters. But I noticed that at the door he
stopped and cast a look of inquiry around the room. It disconcerted me
somewhat; and while I found it difficult to express to myself the
nature of the apprehensions which it caused, I inwardly resolved to rid
myself as soon as possible of the responsibility of holding Mr.
Pollard's will. If Mr. Nicholls did not return by the day of the
funeral, I would go myself to Boston and find him.
No occurrence worth mentioning followed this interview with Dwight
Pollard. I conducted the services as I had promised, but found nothing
to relate concerning them, save the fact that Mrs. Pollard was not
present. She had been very much prostrated by her husband's death, and
was not able to leave her room, or so it was said. I mistrusted the
truth of this, however, but must acknowledge I was glad to be relieved
of a presence not only so obnoxious to myself, but so out of tune with
the occasion. I could ignore Guy, subtle and secret as he was, but this
woman could not be ignored. Where she was, there brooded something
dark, mysterious, and threatening; and whether she smiled or frowned,
the influence of her spirit was felt by a vague oppression at once
impossible to analyze or escape from.
From the cemetery I went immediately to my house. The day was a dreary
one, and I felt, chilled. The gray of the sky was in my spirit, and
every thing seemed unreal and dark and strange. I was in a mood, I
suppose, and, unlike myself on other similar occasions, did not feel
that drawing towards the one dear heart which hitherto had afforded me
solace and support. I had not got used to my new self as yet, and till
I did, the smile of her I loved was more of a reproach to me than
consolation.
I was stopped at the gate by Mrs. Banks. She is my next-door neighbor,
and in the absence of my landlady who had gone to visit some friends,
took charge of any message which might be left for me while I was out.
She looked flurried and mysterious.
"You have had a visitor," she announced.
As she paused and looked as if she expected to be questioned, I
naturally asked who it was.
"She said she was your sister," she declared. "A tall woman with a
thick veil over her face. She went right up to your study, but I think
she must have got tired of waiting, for she went away again a few
moments ago."
My sister! I had no sister. I looked at Mrs. Banks in amazement
"Describe her more particularly," said I.
"That I cannot do," she returned. "Her veil hid her features too
completely for me to see them. I could not even tell her age, but I
should say, from the way she walked that she was older than you."
A chill, which did not come entirely from the east wind then blowing,
ran sharply through my veins.
"I thank you," said I, somewhat incoherently, and ran hastily upstairs.
I had a presentiment as to the identity of this woman.
At the door of my study I paused and looked hurriedly around. No signs
of any disturbance met my eye. Crossing over to my desk, I surveyed the
papers which I had left scattered somewhat loosely over it. They had
been moved. I knew it by the position of the blotter, which I had left
under a certain sheet of paper, and which now lay on top. Hot and cold
at once, I went immediately to the spot where I had concealed Mr.
Pollard's will. It was in my desk, but underneath a drawer instead of
in it, and by this simple precaution, perhaps, I had saved it from
destruction; for I found it lying in its place undisturbed, though the
hand which had crept so near its hiding-place was, as I felt certain,
no other than that of Mrs. Pollard, searching for this very document.
It gave me a shuddering sense of disquiet to think that the veiled
figure of this portentous woman had glided over my floors, reflected
itself in my mirrors, and hung, dark and mysterious in its veiling
drapery, over my desk and the papers which I had handled myself so
lately.
I was struck, too, by the immovable determination to compass her own
ends at any and every risk, which was manifested by this incident; and,
wondering more and more as to what had been the nature of the offence
for which Mr. Pollard sought to make reparation in his will, I only
waited for a moment of leisure in order to make another effort at
enlightenment by a second study of the prayer-book which my dying
friend had placed so earnestly in my hands.
It came, as I supposed, about eight o'clock that evening. The special
duties of the day were done, and I knew of nothing else that demanded
my attention. I therefore took the book from my pocket, where I had
fortunately kept it, and was on the point of opening its pages, when
there came a ring at the door-bell below.
As I have said before, my landlady was away. I consequently went to the
door myself, where I was met by an unexpected visitor in the shape of
the idiot boy, Colwell. Somewhat disconcerted at the sight of a face so
repugnant to me, I was still more thrown off my balance when I heard
his errand. He had been sent, he said, by a man who had been thrown
from his wagon on the north road, and was now lying in a dying
condition inside the old mill, before which he was picked up. Would I
come and see him? He had but an hour or so to live, and wished very
much for a clergyman's consolation.
It was a call any thing but agreeable to me. I was tired; I was
interested in the attempt which I was about to make to solve a mystery
that was not altogether disconnected with my own personal welfare,
and--let me acknowledge it, since events have proved I had reason to
fear this spot--I did not like the old mill. But I was far from
conceiving what a wretched experience lay before me, nor did the fact
that the unwelcome request came through the medium of an imbecile
arouse any suspicion in my mind as to the truth of the message he
brought. For, foolish as he is in some regards, his reliability as an
errand-boy is universally known, while his partiality for roaming, as
well as for excitements of all kinds, fully accounted for the fact of
his being upon the scene of accident.
I had, then, nothing but my own disinclinations to contend with, and
these, strong as they were, could not, at that time, and in the mood
which my late experience had induced, long stand in the way of a duty
so apparent.
I consequently testified my willingness to go to the mill, and in a few
minutes later set out for that spot with a mind comparatively free from
disagreeable forebodings. But as we approached the mill, and I caught a
glimpse of its frowning walls glooming so darkly from out the cluster
of trees that environed them, I own that a sensation akin to that which
had been awakened in me by Mrs. Pollard's threats, and the portentous
darkness of her sombre mansion, once again swept with its chilling
effect over my nerves.
Shocked, disgusted with myself at the recurrence of a weakness for
which I had so little sympathy, I crushed down the feelings I
experienced, and advanced at once to the door. A tall and slim figure
met me, clothed in some dark enveloping garment, and carrying a lantern.
"The injured man is within," said he.
Something in the voice made me look up. His face was entirely in shadow.
"Who are you?" I asked.
He did not reply.
"Let us go in," he said.
A week before I would have refused to do this without knowing more of
my man. But the shame from which I had suffered for the last few days
had made me so distrustful of myself that I was ready to impute to
cowardice even the most ordinary instinct of self-preservation.
I accordingly followed the man, though with each step that I took I
felt my apprehensions increase. To pierce in this manner a depth of
sombre darkness, with only the dim outline of an unknown man moving
silently before me, was any thing but encouraging in itself. Then the
way was too long, and the spot we sought too far from the door. A
really injured man would not be carried beyond the first room, I
thought, and we had already taken steps enough to be half-way through
the building. At last I felt that even cowardice was excusable under
these circumstances, and, putting out my hand, I touched the man before
me on the shoulder.
"Where are we going?" I demanded.
He continued to move on without reply.
"I shall follow you no longer if you do not speak," I cried again.
"This midnight journey through an old building ready to fall into ruins
seems to me not only unpleasant but hazardous."
Still no answer.
"I warned you," I said, and stopped, but the next moment I gave an
almost frantic bound forward. A form had come up against me from
behind, and I found that a man was following as closely upon my steps
as I had been following those of the person who stalked before me.
The thrill of this discovery will never be forgotten by me. For a
moment I could not speak, and when I did, the sound of my voice only
added to my terrors.
"You have me in a trap," said I; "who are you, and what are your
intentions with me?"
"We have you where we can reason with you," exclaimed the voice of him
who pressed against my back; and at the sound of those gentlemanly
tones with their underlying note of sarcasm, I understood that my hour
had come. It was the voice and intonation of Guy Pollard.
XXI.
THE VAT.
_Des_.--Talk you of killing?'
_Oth_.--Ay, I do.
_Des_.--Then, heaven
Have mercy on me!
--OTHELLO.
I quivered with shame, for I felt my heart sink. But there was no pause
in the smooth, sarcastic tones behind me. "When a man persists in
judging of his duty contrary to the dictates of reason, he must expect
restraint from those who understand his position better than he does
himself."
"Then," quoth I, with suddenly acquired strength, "I am to understand
that the respectable family of Pollard finds itself willing to resort
to the means and methods of highwaymen in order to compass its ends and
teach me my duty."
"You are," a determined voice returned.
At that word, uttered as it was in a tone inexorable as fate, my last
ray of hope went out. The voice was that of a woman.
I however, made a strong effort for the preservation of my dignity and
person.
"And will Samuel Pollard's oldest and best-beloved son, the
kind-hearted and honest Dwight, lend himself to a scheme of common
fraud and violence?" I asked.
The reply came in his brother's most sarcastic tones. "Dwight has left
us," he declared. "We have no need of honesty or kind-heartedness here.
What we want for this business is an immovable determination."