indicated, the subjoined sentences appeared, which, if somewhat
incoherent at times--as could only be expected from the limited means
at his command--certainly convey a decided meaning, especially after
receiving the punctuation and capital letters, which, after long study
and some after-knowledge of affairs, I have ventured upon giving them:
"My sin is ever before me.
"Correct, lest thou bring me to nothing.
"Do those things which are requisite and necessary for a pure and
humble one, Grace by name, begotten by son, he born of first wife and
not obedient to the law abroad, a prisoner.
"Revelation made known in few words whereby when ye read ye may
understand the mystery which was made known unto the sons, fellow-heirs
of Grace.
"Go and search diligently for the young child.
"The higher powers resist and are a terror to good works.
"Do that which is good and thou shalt have praise, minister of God.
"Wherefore ye must needs be subject for wrath, for they are attending
continually upon this thing.
"Render therefore to all their dues; tribute to whom tribute; honor to
whom honor.
"Two possessed of devils, exceeding fierce of the household, hope Grace
may evermore be cast away.
"They murmur against the good man of the house, and do not agree to
mercifully defend against perils in the city an honest and good heart.
"My will leave(s) heritage to Grace.
"The devil is against me.
"Behold a woman grievously vexed with lost sheep of the house.
"Then came she, saying: 'It is not mete to take the children's bread
and to cast it to the dogs. Be unto, us an offering named as becometh
saints. For this ye know, that no unclean person hath any inheritance
because of disobedience and fellowship with works of darkness. For it
is a shame to speak of those things which are done of them in secret.'
"Beelzebub, the chief of devils, and sons cast out man; taketh from him
all wherein he trusteth and divideth the spoils against me.
"To purge conscience, the new testament means redemption of the
transgressions under first testament.
"Said a devil: 'Father, ye do dishonor me. Say ye know him not, thy
son, and suffer that a notable prisoner, his wife and child, were not
called by thy name.' 'I will,' said I. But I deny all here. My soul is
sorrowful unto death, as I bear false witness against them.
"The hand that betrayeth me is with me.
"I appoint you to sift as wheat.
"This must be accomplished, for the things concerning me have an end.
"Words sent unto me out of prison, said: 'Daughter weep(s). Beseech
thee graciously to fetch home to thee my child in tribulation. For lo,
the ungodly bend their bow and make ready their arrows within the
quiver, that they may privily shoot at them which are true of heart.
Show I thy marvellous loving-kindness unto an undefined soul forsaken
on every side of mother and friendly neighbors. Make haste to deliver
and save. I am clean forgotten, as a dead man out of mind. I am become
as a broken vessel.'
"Whilst I held my tongue, my bones consumed away daily.
"I will inform thee and teach thee ill the way wherein thou shalt go.
"Blessed are folk chosen to inheritance; the children of them that
dwell under the king.
"Poor Grac(e) come over the see (sea), unaware that I were sick.
"Deliver my darling from the lions, so will I give thee thanks.
"O let not them that are mine enemies triumph that hate me.
"They imagine deceitful words against them that are quiet in the land.
"Child is in thy land.
"Look after daughter among honorable women. House in City of the East
Wind.
[Footnote: Number omitted for obvious
reasons.]"--C-H-A-R-L-E-S-S-T-R-E-E-T.
"Child I have looked upon not.
"I promised with my lips and spake with my mouth, but God turned his
mercy upon me, and upon health hath sent forth his voice, yea, and that
a mighty voice.
"I sink, and the deep waters drown me.
"Mine adversaries hath broken my heart.
"Let the things that should have been for them be for the poor
prisoner's posterity.
"Break down the carved work and search out my will.
"Walk to table under southwest borders of room, take the wood that hath
in it operations of the law, and cleave.
"For my days are gone like a shadow, and I am withered as grass."
XXIII.
TOO LATE.
What fear is this, which startles in our ears?
--ROMEO AND JULIET.
The conclusion which I drew from these sentences after a close and
repeated perusal of them was to this effect:
That Mr. Pollard instead of possessing only two sons, as was generally
supposed, had in reality been the father of three. That the eldest,
born in all probability before Mr. Pollard's removal to this country
(he was an Englishman by birth), had, by some act of violence or fraud,
incurred the penalty of the law, and was even now serving out a term of
imprisonment in his native land. That this son had a daughter innocent
and virtuous, whom he desired to commit to the care of her grandfather;
that he had even sent her over here for that purpose, but that Mr.
Pollard, taken down with the illness which afterwards ended in death,
had not only failed to be on hand to receive her, but that, surrounded
and watched by his wife and sons, who, in their selfish pride, were
determined to ignore all claims of kinship on the part of one they
despised, he had not even had the chance to take such measures for her
safety and happiness as his love and regard for her lonely and desolate
position seemed to demand. That the will, whose concealment in his desk
he had managed to describe, had been made in recompense for this
neglect, and that by it she would receive that competence and
acknowledgment of her rights which the hatred of her unscrupulous
relatives would otherwise deny her.
And this was the will I had weakly given up, and it was upon the head
of this innocent child that the results of my weakness must fall.
When I first recognized this fact I felt stupefied. That I, David
Barrows, should be the cause of misery and loss to a guileless and pure
soul! I could not realize it, nor believe that consequences so serious
and irremediable could follow upon an act into which I had been
betrayed by mere cowardice. But soon, too soon, the matter became plain
to me. I saw what I had done and was overwhelmed, for I could no longer
doubt that the real will had been destroyed and that the one which had
been returned to me was a substituted one, perhaps the very same which
I had seen among the papers of Mr. Pollard's desk.
The result of my remorse was an immediate determination on my part to
search out the young girl, left in this remarkable manner to my care,
and by my efforts in her behalf do what I could to remedy the great
evil which, through my instrumentality, had befallen her.
The purpose was no sooner taken than I prepared to carry it out. S----
could hold no duty for me now paramount to this. I was a father and my
child lingered solitary and uncared-for in a strange place. I took the
first train the next morning for the "city of the east-wind."
The hour at which I arrived at number -- Charles Street, was one of
deep agitation to me, I had thought so continually upon my journey of
the young waif I was seeking. Would she be the embodiment of
ingenuousness which her grandfather had evidently believed her to be?
Should I find her forgiving and tractable; or were the expectations I
had formed false in their character and founded rather upon Mr.
Pollard's wishes than any knowledge he had of her disposition and
acquirements?
The house was, as far as I could judge from the exterior, of a most
respectable character, and the lady who answered my somewhat impatient
summons was one of those neat and intelligent-looking persons who
inspire confidence at first glance. To my inquiries as to whether there
was living in her house a young English lady by the name of Grace--I
did not like to venture upon that of Pollard, there being some phrases
in the communication I have shown you which led me to think that Mr.
Pollard had changed his name on coming to this country,--she gave me a
look of such trouble and anxiety that I was instantly struck with
dismay.
"Miss Merriam?" she exclaimed; then, as I bowed with seeming
acquiescence, continued in a tone that conveyed still more disquiet
than her face, "She _was_ here; but she is gone, sir; a woman took her
away."
A woman! I must have grown pale, for she swung wide the door and asked
me to come in.
"We can talk better in the hall," she remarked, and pointed to a chair
into which I half fell.
"I have a great interest in this young lady," I observed; "in short, I
am her guardian. Can you tell me the name of the person with whom she
went away, or where she can be found now?"
"No sir," she answered, with the same expression of trouble. "The woman
gave us no name nor address, and the young lady seemed too much
frightened to speak. We have felt anxious ever since she went, sir; for
the letter she showed us from the captain of the ship which brought her
over, told us to take great care of her. We did not know she had a
guardian or we should not have let her go. The woman seemed very
pleasant, and paid all the bills, but----"
"But what?" I cried, too anxious to bear a moment's delay.
"She did not lift her veil, and this seemed to me a suspicious
circumstance."
Torn with apprehension and doubt, I staggered to my feet.
"Tell me all about this woman," I demanded. "Give me every detail you
can remember. I have a dreadful fear that it is some one who should
never have seen this child."
"Well, sir, she came at about eleven in the morning----"
"What day?" I interrupted her to ask.
"Thursday," she replied, "a week ago yesterday."
The very day after the will was returned to me. If she were the woman I
feared, she had evidently lost no time.
"She asked for Miss Merriam," the lady before me pursued, evidently
greatly pitying my distress, "and as we knew no reason why our young
boarder should not receive visitors, we immediately proceeded to call
her down. But the woman, with a muttered excuse, said she would not
trouble us; that she knew the child well, and would go right up to her
room if we would only tell her where it was. This we did and should
have thought no more of the matter, if in a little while she had not
reappeared in the hall, and, inquiring the way to my room, told me that
Miss Merriam had decided to leave my house; that she had offered her a
home with her, and that they were to go immediately.
"I was somewhat taken aback by this, and inquired if I could not see
Miss Merriam. She answered 'What for?' and when I hinted that money was
owing me for her board, she drew out her pocket-book and paid me on the
spot. I could say nothing after this, 'But are you a relative, ma'am?'
to which her quick and angry negative, hidden, however, next moment, by
a suave acknowledgment of friendship, gave me my first feeling of
alarm. But I did not dare to ask her any further questions, much as I
desired to know who she was and where she was going to take the young
girl. There was something in her manner that overawed me, at the same
time it filled me with dread. But if I could not speak to her I meant
to have some words with Miss Merriam before she left the house. This
the woman seemed to wish to prevent, for she stood close by me when the
young girl came down, and when I stepped forward to say good-by, pushed
me somewhat rudely aside and took Miss Merriam by the arm. 'Come, my
dear,' she cried, and would have hurried her out without a word. But I
would not have that. The sorrow and perplexity in Miss Merriam's face
were too marked for me to let her depart in silence. So I persisted in
speaking, and after saying how sorry I was to have her go, asked her if
she would not leave her new address with me in case any letters should
come for her. Her answer was a frightened look at her companion who
immediately spoke for her. 'I have told you,' said she, 'that Miss
Merriam goes home with me. It is not likely she will have any letters,
but if she should, you can send them to the place mentioned on this
card,' and she pulled a visiting card from her bag and gave it to me,
after which she immediately went away, dragging Miss Merriam after her."
"And you have that card?" I cried. "Why did you not show it to me at
once?"
"O, sir," she responded with a sorrowful shake of her head, "it was a
fraud, a deception. The card was not hers but another person's, and its
owner don't even know Miss Merriam."
"How do you know this?" I asked. "Have you seen this other person?"
"Yes, sir, I had occasion to, for a letter did come for Miss Merriam
only a short time after she left. So thinking it a good opportunity to
see where she had gone, I carried it to the address which was on the
card given me, and found as I have told you that it was not the same
lady at all who lived there, and that there was not only no Miss
Merriam in the house but that her name was not even known there."
"And you saw the lady herself?"
"Yes, sir."
"And are you sure it was not the same as the one who was here?"
"Oh yes; she was short and stout and had a frank way of speaking,
totally unlike that of the veiled woman."
"And the latter? How was she shaped? You have not told me."
I asked this in trembling tones. Though I was sure what the answer
would be, I dreaded to have my fears confirmed.
"Well, sir, she was tall and had a full commanding figure, very
handsome to look at. She was dressed all in gray and had a way of
holding her head that made an ordinary sized woman like myself feel
very small and insignificant. Yet she was not agreeable in her
appearance; and I am sure that if I could have seen her face I should
have disliked her still more, though I do not doubt it was in keeping
with her figure, and very handsome."
I could have no doubts as to whom this described, yet I made one final
effort to prove my suspicions false.
"You have given me the description of a person of some pretensions to
gentility," I remarked, "yet from the first you have forborne to speak
of her as a lady."
"An involuntary expression of my distrust and dislike I suppose. Then
her dress was very plain, and the veil she wore quite common."
I thought of the dress and veil which my self-designated "sister" had
worn in the visit she paid to my rooms and wondered if they would not
answer to the description of these.
"What was the color of her veil?" I inquired.
"Dark blue."
That was the color of the one which had been worn by my mysterious
visitor, as I had found from subsequent questions put to my neighbor,
and I could no longer have the least uncertainty as to who the woman
was who had carried off Mr. Pollard's grandchild. Sick at heart and
fearing I scarcely knew what, I asked for the letter which had been
left for Miss Merriam, and receiving it from the hand of this amiable
woman in whom I appeared to have inspired as much confidence as her
former visitor had alarm, I tore it open, and in my capacity of
guardian read what it contained. Here it is:
MY DEAR MISS MERRIAM:
The gentleman, in the hope of whose protection you came to this
country, is dead. I am his son and naturally feel it incumbent upon me
to look after your interests. I am therefore, coming shortly to see
you; but till I do so, remember that you are not to receive any one who
may call, no matter what their name, sex, or apparent business. If you
disobey me in this regard you may do yourself a permanent injury. Wait
till my card is brought you, and then judge for yourself whether I am a
person in whom you can trust. Hoping to find you in good health, and as
happy as your bereaved condition will admit of, I remain sincerely
yours,
DWIGHT GAYLORD POLLARD.
"Ah, he wrote a day too late!" I involuntarily exclaimed; then
perceiving the look of curiosity which this unguarded expression had
awakened on the face of my companion, folded the letter up and put it
quietly in my pocket. "It is an unhappy piece of business," I now
observed, "but I shall hope to find Miss Merriam very soon, and place
her where she will be both safe and happy."
And feeling that I ought to know something of the appearance and
disposition of one I so fully intended to befriend, I inquired whether
she was a pretty girl.
The reply I received was almost enthusiastic.
"I do not know as you would call her pretty, sir, she is so pale and
fragile; but if her features are not regular nor her color good, she
has something unusually attractive in her face, and I have heard more
than one gentleman here say, 'Miss Merriam is lovely.'"
"And her manners?"
"Very modest, sir, and timid. She seems to have a secret sorrow, for I
have often seen her eyes fill when she thought no one was looking at
her."
"Do you know her history or connections?"
"No, sir."
"Then she never talked to you about herself?"
"No, sir; though so young, she was strangely like a woman in many
things. An uncommonly sweet child, sir, an uncommonly sweet child."
I felt the sting of a great reproach in my heart, and, anxious to hide
the depth of my emotion, rose to leave. But the good woman, detaining
me, Inquired what she should do with Miss Merriam's trunk.
"What," I exclaimed, "is that still here?" "Yes, sir; she took, as I
noticed, a bag of some size with her, but she left her trunk. In the
flurry of their departure I forgot to speak about it. I have expected
an expressman after it every day, but none has come. That is another
reason why I have felt anxious."
"I do not wonder," I exclaimed. "Sometimes," she observed, "I have
thought it was my duty to speak to the police about the matter; it
would be such a dreadful thing if any harm had come to her."
"I will speak to the police if necessary," said I. And determined as I
had never been before in my life, I left the house and proceeded
directly to the depot, where I took the first train for S----.
XXIV.
CONFRONTED.
Stop up the access and passage to remorse;
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect and it!
--MACBETH.
Being in the confessional, I have not forborne to tell the worst of
myself; I will not, therefore, hesitate to tell the best. When on that
very afternoon I entered Mrs. Pollard's grounds, it was with a resolve
to make her speak out, that had no element of weakness in it. Not her
severest frown, nor that diabolical look from Guy's eye, which had
hitherto made me quail, should serve to turn me aside from my purpose,
or thwart those interests of right and justice which I felt were so
deeply at stake. If my own attempt, backed by the disclosures which had
come to me through the prayer-book I had received from Mr. Pollard,
should fail, then the law should take hold of the matter and wrench the
truth from this seemingly respectable family, even at the risk of my
own happiness and the consideration which I had always enjoyed in this
town.
The house, when I approached it, struck me with an odd sense of change.
I did not stop at the time to inquire why this was, but I have since
concluded, in thinking over the subject, that the parlor curtains must
have been drawn up, something which I do not remember ever having seen
there before or since. The front door also was ajar, and when I rang
the bell it was so speedily answered that I had hardly time to summon
up the expression of determination which I felt would alone gain me
admittance to the house. But my presence instead of seeming unwelcome,
seemed to be almost expected by the servant who opened to me. He bowed,
smiled, and that, too, in almost a holiday fashion; and when I would
have asked for Mrs. Pollard, interrupted me by a request to lay off my
overcoat in a side room, which he courteously pointed out to me.
There was something in this and in the whole aspect of the place which
astonished me greatly. If this sombre dwelling with its rich but
dismally dark halls and mysterious recesses could be said to ever wear
an air of cheer, the attempt certainly had been made to effect this
to-day. From the hand of the bronze figure that capped the newel-post
hung wreaths of smilax and a basket full of the most exquisite flowers;
while from a half-open door at my right came a streak of positive
light, and the sound of several voices animated with some sentiment
that was strangely out of accord with the solemn scene to which this
very room had so lately been a witness. Can they be having a reception?
I asked myself; and almost ashamed of the surmise, ever in the house of
one so little respected, I, nevertheless, turned to the civil servant
before me and remarked:
"There is something going on here of which I was ignorant. Is Mrs.
Pollard entertaining guests to-day?"
"Did you not know, sir?" he inquired. "I thought you had been invited,
perhaps; Miss Pollard is going to be married this afternoon."
Miss Pollard going to be married! Could any thing have been worse?
Shocked, I drew back; Miss Pollard was a beautiful girl and totally
innocent, in as far as I knew, of any of the wrong which had certainly
been perpetrated by some members of her family. It would never do to
mortify her or to mar the pleasure of her wedding-day by any such scene
as my errand probably involved. She must be saved sorrow even if her
mother--But at that instant the vague but pathetic form of another
young girl flitted in imagination before my eyes, and I asked myself if
I had not already done enough injury to the helpless and the weak,
without putting off for another hour even that attempt at rescue, which
the possibly perilous position of Mr. Pollard's grandchild so
imperatively demanded. As I thought this and remembered that the
gentleman to whom Miss Pollard was engaged was an Englishman of lordly
connections and great wealth, I felt my spirit harden and my purpose
take definite form. Turning, therefore to the servant before me I
inquired if Mrs. Pollard was above or below; and learning that she had
not yet come down-stairs, I tore a leaf out of my note-book and wrote
on it the following lines:
I know your daughter is on the point of descending to her marriage. I
know also that you do not want to see me. But the interests of Miss
Merriam demand that you should do so, and that immediately. If you do
not come, I shall instantly enter the parlor and tell a story to the
assembled guests which will somewhat shake your equanimity when you
come to appear before them. My moral courage is not to be judged by my
physical, madam, and I shall surely do this thing.
David Barrows
The servant, who still lingered before me, took this note.
"Give it to Mrs. Pollard," I requested. "Tell her it is upon a matter
of pressing importance, but do not mention my name, if you please; she
will find it in the note." And seeing by the man's face that my wishes
would be complied with, I took up my stand in a certain half-curtained
recess and waited with loudly beating heart for the issue.
She came. I saw her when she first put foot on the stairs, and
notwithstanding my strong antipathy, I could not repress a certain
feeling of admiration from mixing with the dread the least sight of her
always occasioned me. Her form, which was of the finest, was clad in
heavy black velvet, without a vestige of ornament to mar its sombre
richness, and her hair, now verging towards gray, was piled up in
masses on the top of her haughty head, adding inches to a height that
in itself was almost queenly. But her face! and her cruel eye and the
smile of her terrible lip. I grew cold as I saw her approach, but I did
not move from my place or meditate the least change in the plan I had
laid for her subjection.
She stopped just two feet from where I stood, and without the least
bend of her head or any gesture of greeting, looked at me. I bore it
with quietude, and even answered glance with glance, until I saw her
turn pale with the first hint of dismay which she had possibly ever
betrayed; then I bowed and waited for her to speak. She did so with a
hiss like a serpent.
"What does this mean?" she cried. "What do you hope to gain from me,
that you presume to write me such a letter on an occasion like this?"
"Madam," I rejoined, "you are in haste, and so am I; so, without
expressing any opinion of the actions which have driven me to this
step, I will merely say that I want but one thing of you, but that I
want immediately, without hesitation and without delay. I allude to
Miss Merriam's address, which you have, and which you must give me on
the spot."