expression of emotion, while it showed she was not entirely without
sensation, awoke within me a strange fear, since how dark must be her
secret, if she could tremble at the thought of its discovery. She must
have seen that I was affected, for her confidence immediately returned.
"I do not know,--" she began to say.
But I mercilessly interrupted her.
"But _I_ know," said I, with an emphasis on the pronoun, "and know so
much that I am sure the company within would be glad to hear what I
could tell them. Mr. Harrington, for instance, who I hear is of a very
honorable family in England, would be pleased to learn--"
"Hush!" she whispered, seizing my wrist with a hand of steel. "If I
must tell you I will, but no more words from you, do you hear, no more
words."
I took out my note-book and thrust it into her hand.
"Write," I, commanded; "her full address, mind you, that I may find her
before the day is over."
She gave me a strange glance but took the book and pencil without a
word.
"There!" she cried, hurriedly writing a line and passing the book back
to me. "And now go; our time for further conversation will come later."
But I did not stir. I read aloud the line she had given me and then
said:
"Madam, this address is either a true or a false one. Which, I shall
soon know. For upon leaving here, I shall proceed immediately to the
telegraph-office, from which I shall telegraph to the police station
nearest to this address, for the information I desire. I shall receive
an answer within the hour; and if I find you have deceived me I shall
not hesitate to return here, and so suitably accompanied that you will
not only open to me, but rectify whatever mistake you may have made.
Your guests will not be gone in an hour," I ruthlessly added.
Her face, which had been pale, turned ghastly. Glancing up at a clock
which stood a few feet from the recess in which we stood, she gave an
involuntary shudder and looked about for Guy.
"Your son, fertile as he is in resources, cannot help you," I remarked.
"There is no pit of darkness here; besides I have learned a lesson,
madam; and not death itself would deter me now from doing my duty by
this innocent child. So if you wish to change this address--"
I stopped; a strain of music had risen from the parlor. It was
Mendelssohn's Wedding March. Mrs. Pollard started, cast a hurried look
above and tore the note-book out of my hands.
"You are a fiend," she hissed, and hurriedly scratching out the words
she had written, she wrote another number and name. "You will find she
is there," she cried, "and since I have complied with your desire, you
will have no need to return here till you bring the young girl _home_."
The emphasis she placed on the last word startled me. I looked at her
and wondered if Medea wore such a countenance when she stabbed her
children to the heart. But it flashed and was gone, and the next moment
she had moved away from my side and I had stepped to the door. As I
opened it to pass out I caught one glimpse of the bride as she came
down the stairs. She looked exquisite in her simple white dress, and
her face was wreathed in smiles.
XXV.
THE FINAL BLOW.
It was a deadly blow! A blow like that
Which swooping unawares from out the night,
Dashes a man from some high starlit peak
Into a void of cold and hurrying waves.
The distrust which I felt for Mrs. Pollard was so great that I was
still uncertain as to whether she had given me the right address. I
therefore proceeded to carry out my original design and went at once to
the telegraph-office. The message I sent was peremptory and in the
course of half an hour this answer was returned.
Person described, found. Condition critical. Come at once.
There was a train that left in fifteen minutes. Though I had just come
from Boston, I did not hesitate to return at once. By six o'clock of
that day I stood before the house to which I had been directed. My
first sight of it struck me like death. God, what was I about to
encounter! What sort of a spot was this, and what was the doom that had
befallen the child committed to my care. Numb with horror, I rang the
door-bell with difficulty, and when I was admitted by a man in the
guise of an officer, I felt something like an instantaneous relief,
though I saw by his countenance that he had any thing but good news to
give me.
"Are you the gentleman who telegraphed from S----?" he asked.
I bowed, not feeling able to speak.
"Relative or friend?" he went on.
"Friend," I managed to reply.
"Do you guess what has happened?" he inquired.
"I dare not," I answered, with a fearful look about me on walls that
more than confirmed my suspicions.
"Miss Merriam is dead," he answered.
I drew a deep breath. It was almost a relief.
"Come in," he said, and opened the door of a room at our right. When we
were seated and I had by careful observation made sure we were alone, I
motioned for him to go on. He immediately complied. "When we received
your telegram, we sent a man here at once. He had some difficulty in
entering and still more in finding the young lady, who was hidden in
the most remote part of the house. But by perseverance and some force
he at last obtained entrance to her room where he found--pardon my
abruptness, it will be a mercy to you for me to cut the story
short--that he had been ordered here too late; the young lady had taken
poison and was on the point of death."
The horror in my face reflected itself faintly in his.
"I do not know how she came to this house," he proceeded; "but she must
have been a person of great purity and courage; for though she died
almost immediately upon his entrance, she had time to say that she had
preferred death to the fate that threatened her, and that no one would
mourn her for she had no friends in this country, and her father would
never hear how she died."
I sprang wildly to my feet.
"Did she mention no names?" I asked.
"Did she not say who brought her to this hell of hells, or murmur even
with her dying breath, one word that would guide us in fixing this
crime upon the head of her who is guilty of it?"
"No," answered the officer, "no; but you are right in thinking it was a
woman, but what woman, the creature below evidently does not know."
Feeling that the situation demanded thought, I composed myself to the
best of my ability.
"I am the Rev. David Barrows of S----," said I, "and my interest in
this young girl is purely that of a humanitarian. I have never seen
her. I do not even know how long she has been in this country. But I
learned that a girl by the name of Grace Merriam had been beguiled from
her boarding-place here in this city, and fearing that some terrible
evil had befallen her, I telegraphed to the police to look her up."
The officer bowed.
"The number of her boarding-place?" asked he.
I told him, and not waiting for any further questions, demanded if I
might not see the body of the young girl.
He led me at once to the room in which it lay, and stood respectfully
at the door while I went in alone. The sight I saw has never left me.
Go where I will, I see ever before me that pure young face, with its
weary look hushed in the repose of death. It haunts me, it accuses me.
It asks me where is the noble womanhood that might have blossomed from
this sweet bud, had it not been for my pusillanimity and love of life?
But when I try to answer, I am stopped by that image of death, with its
sealed lips and closed eyes never to open again--never, never, whatever
my longing, my anguish, or my despair.
But the worst shock was to come yet. As I left the room and went
stumbling down the stairs, I was met by the officer and led again into
the apartment I had first entered on the ground floor.
"There is some one here," he began, "whom you may like to question."
Thinking it to be the woman of the house, I advanced, though somewhat
reluctantly, when a sight met my eyes that made me fall back in
astonishment and dread. It was the figure of a woman dressed all in
gray, with a dark-blue veil drawn tightly over her features.
"Good God!" I murmured, "who is this?"
"The woman who brought her here," observed the officer. "Farrell,
there, has just found her."
And then I perceived darkly looming in the now heavy dusk the form of
another man, whose unconscious and business-like air proclaimed him to
be a member of the force.
"Her name is Sophie Preston," the officer continued, motioning to the
woman to throw up her veil. "She is a hard character, and some day will
have to answer for her many crimes."
Meanwhile, I stood rooted to the ground; the name, the face were
strange, and neither that of her whom I had inwardly accused of this
wrong.
"I should like to ask the woman--" I commenced, but here my eyes fell
upon her form. It was tall and it was full, but it was not by any means
handsome. A fearful possibility crossed my mind. Approaching the woman
closely, I modified my question.
"Are you the person who took this young lady from her boarding place?"
I asked.
"Yes, sir," was the reply, uttered in smooth but by no means cultivated
tones.
"And by what arts did you prevail upon this young and confiding
creature to leave her comfortable home and go out into the streets with
you?"
She did not speak, she smiled. O heaven! what depths of depravity
opened before me in that smile!
"Answer!" the officer cried.
"Well, sir, I told her," she now replied, "that I was such and such a
relative, grandmother, I think I said; and being a dutiful child--"
But I was now up close to her side, and, leaning to her very ear I
interrupted her.
"Tell me on which side of the hall was the parlor into which you went."
"The right," she answered, without the least show of hesitation.
"Wrong," I returned; "you have never been there."
She looked frightened.
"O, sir," she whispered, "hush! hush! If you know--" And there she
stopped; and instantly cried aloud, in a voice that warned me I should
make nothing by pressing my suspicions at this time and in this place,
"I lured the young lady from her home and I brought her here. If it is
a criminal act I shall have to answer for it. We all run such risks now
and then."
To me, with my superior knowledge of all the mysteries which lay behind
this pitiful tragedy, her meaning was evident. Whether she had received
payment sufficient for the punishment possibly awaiting her, or whether
she had been frightened into assuming the responsibility of another,
she was evidently resolved to sustain her role of abductress to the end.
The look she gave me at the completion of her words intensified this
conviction, and not feeling sufficiently sure of my duty to dispute her
at the present time, I took advantage of her determination, and
outwardly, if not inwardly, accepted her confession as true.
I therefore retreated from her side, and being anxious to avoid the
coroner, who was likely to enter at any minute, I confined myself to
asking a few leading questions, which being answered in a manner
seemingly frank, I professed myself satisfied with the result, and
hastily withdrew.
XXVI.
A FELINE TOUCH.
Thou hast not half the power to do me harm,
as I have to be hurt.
--OTHELLO.
The tumult in my mind and heart were great, but my task was not yet
completed, and till it was I could neither stop to analyze my emotions
nor measure the depths of darkness into which I had been plunged by an
occurrence as threatening to my peace as it was pitiful to my heart.
Mrs. Pollard was to be again, interviewed, and to that formidable duty
every thing bowed, even my need of rest and the demand which my whole
body made for refreshment.
It was eight o'clock when I stood for the second time that day at her
door; and, contrary to my expectations, I found as little difficulty in
entering as I had before. Indeed, the servant was even more affable and
obliging than he had been in the afternoon, and persisted in showing me
into a small room off the parlor, now empty of guests, and going at
once for Mrs. Pollard.
"She will see you, sir, I am sure," was his last remark as he went out
of the door, "for, though she is so very tired, she told me if you
called to ask you to wait."
I looked around on the somewhat desolate scene that presented itself,
and doubtingly shook my head. This seeming submission on the part of a
woman so indomitable as she, meant something. Either she was thoroughly
frightened or else she meditated some treachery. In either case I
needed all my self-command. Happily, the scene I had just quitted was
yet vividly impressed upon my mind, and while it remained so, I felt as
strong and unassailable as I had once felt weak and at the mercy of my
fears.
I did not have to wait long. Almost immediately upon the servant's
call, Mrs. Pollard entered the room and stood before me. Her first
glance told me all. She was frightened.
"Well?" she said, in a hard whisper, and with a covert look around as
if she feared the very walls might hear us. "You have found the girl
and you have come to ask for money. It is a reasonable request, and if
you do not ask too much you shall have it. I think it will heal all
wounds."
My indignation flared up through all my horror and dismay.
"Money?" I cried, "money? what good will money do the dead; you have
killed her, madam."
"Killed her?" No wonder she grew pale, no wonder she half gasped.
"Killed her?" she repeated.
"Yes," I returned, not giving her time to think, much less speak.
"Lured by you to a den of evil, she chose to die rather than live on in
disgrace. The woman who lent you her clothes has been found, and--I see
I have reached you at last," I broke in. "I thought God's justice would
work."
"I--I--" She had to moisten her lips before she could speak. "I don't
understand what you mean. You say I lured her, that is a lie. I never
took her to this den of evil as you call it."
"But you knew the street and number of the house, and you gave her into
the hand of the woman who did take her there."
"I knew the number of the house but I did not know it was a den of
evil. I thought it was a respectable place, cheaper than the one she
was in. I am sorry--"
"Madam," I interrupted, "you will find it difficult to make the world
believe _you_ so destitute of good sense as not to know the character
of the house to which such a woman as you entrusted her with would be
likely to lead her. Besides, how will you account for the fact that,
you wore a dress precisely like that of this creature when you enticed
Miss Merriam away from her home. Is there any jury who will believe it
to be a coincidence, especially when they learn that you kept your veil
down in the presence of every one there?"
"But what proof have you that it was I who went for Miss Merriam? The
word of this woman whom you yourself call a _creature?_"
"The word of the landlady, who described Miss Merriam's visitor as tall
and of a handsome figure, and my own eyesight, which assured me that
the woman who came with her to her place of death was not especially
tall nor of a handsome figure. Besides, I talked to the latter, and
found she could tell me nothing of the interior of the house where Miss
Merriam boarded. She did not even know if the parlors were on the right
or the left side of the hall."
"Indeed!" came in Mrs. Pollard's harshest and most cutting tones. But
the attempted sarcasm failed. She was shaken to the core, and there was
no use in her trying to hide it. I did not, therefore, seek to break
the silence which followed the utterance of this bitter exclamation;
for the sooner she understood the seriousness of her position the
sooner I should see what my own duty was. Suddenly she spoke, but not
in her former tones. The wily woman had sounded the depths of the gulf
upon the brink of which she had inadvertently stumbled, and her voice,
which had been harsh? and biting, now took on all the softness which
hypocrisy could give it.
But her words were sarcastic as ever.
"I asked you a moment ago," said she, "what money you wanted. I do not
ask that now, as the girl is dead and a clergyman is not supposed to
take much interest in filthy lucre. But you want something, or you
would not be here. Is it revenge? It is a sentiment worthy of your
cloth, and I can easily understand the desire you may have to indulge
in it."
"Madam," I cried, "can you think of no other motive than a desire for
vengeance or gain? Have you never heard of such a thing as justice?"
"And do you intend--" she whispered.
"There will be an inquest held," I continued. "I shall be called as a
witness, and so doubtless will you. Are you prepared to answer all and
every question that will be put you?"
"An inquest?" Her face was quite ghastly now. "And have you taken pains
to publish abroad my connection with this girl?"
"Not yet."
"She is known, however, to be a grandchild of Mr. Pollard?"
"No," said I.
"What is known?" she inquired.
"That she was Mr. Pollard's protege."
"And you, you alone, hold the key to her real history?"
"Yes," I assented, "I."
She advanced upon me with all the venom of her evil nature sparkling in
her eye. I met the glance unmoved. For a reason I will hereafter
divulge, I no longer felt any fear of what either she or hers might do.
"I alone know her history and what she owes to you," I repeated. She
instantly fell back. Whether she understood me or not, she saw that her
hold upon me was gone, that the cowardice she had been witness to was
dead, and that she, not I, must plead for mercy.
"Mr. Barrows," said she; "what is this girl to you that you should
sacrifice the living to her memory?"
"Mrs. Pollard," I returned with equal intensity, "shall I tell you? She
is the victim of my pusillanimity. That is what she is to me, and that
is what makes her memory more to me than the peace or good name of her
seemingly respectable murderers."
Was it the word I used or did some notion of the effect which a true
remorse can have upon a conscientious soul, pierce her cold heart at
last? I cannot tell; I only know that she crouched for an instant as if
a blow had fallen upon her haughty head, then rising erect again--she
was a proud woman still and would be to her death, whatever her fate or
fortune--she gave me an indescribable look, and in smothered tones
remarked:
"Your sympathies are with the innocent. That is well; now come with me,
I have another innocence to show you, and after you have seen it tell
me whether innocence living or innocence dead has the most claim upon
your pity and regard." And before I realized what she was doing, she
had led me across the room to a window, from which she hastily pulled
aside the curtain that hung across it.
The sight that met my eyes was like a dream of fairyland let into the
gloom and terror of a nightmare. The window overlooked the
conservatory, and the latter being lighted, a vision of tropical
verdure and burning blossoms flashed before us. But it was not upon
this wealth of light and color that the gaze rested in the fullest
astonishment and delight. It was upon two figures seated in the midst
of these palm-trees and cacti, whose faces, turned the one towards the
other, made a picture of love and joy that the coldest heart must feel,
and the most stolid view with delight. It was the bridegroom and his
bride, Mr. Harrington and the beautiful Agnes Pollard.
I felt the hand that lay upon my arm tremble.
"Have you the heart to dash such happiness as that?" murmured a voice
in my ear.
Was it Mrs. Pollard speaking? I had never heard such a tone as that
from her before. Turning, I looked at her. Her face was as changed as
her voice; there was not only softness in it but appeal. It was no
longer Mrs. Pollard who stood beside me, but _the mother_.
"_She_ has never made a mistake," continued this terrible being, all
the more terrible to me now that I saw capabilities of feeling in her.
"She is young and has her whole life before her. If you pursue the
claims of justice as you call them, her future will be wrecked. It is
no fool she has married but a proud man, the proudest of his race. If
he had known she had for a brother one whom his own country had
sentenced to perpetual imprisonment, he would not have married her had
his love been ten times what it is. It was because her family was
honored and could bestow a small fortune upon her in dowry that he
braved his English prejudices at all. What then do you think would be
the result if he knew that not only was her brother a convict, but her
mother----" She did not finish, but broke in upon herself with a
violence that partook of frenzy. "He would first ignore her, then hate
her. I know these Englishmen well."
It was true. The happiness or misery of this young creature hung upon
my decision. A glance at her husband's face made this evident. He would
love her while he could be proud of her; he would hate her the moment
her presence suggested shame or opprobrium.
My wily antagonist evidently saw I was impressed, for her face grew
still softer and her tone more insinuating.
"She was her father's darling," she whispered. "He could never bear to
see a frown upon her face or a tear in her eye. Could he know now what
threatened her do you think he would wish you to drag disgrace upon her
head for the sake of justice to a being who is dead?"
I did not reply. The truth was I felt staggered.
"See what an exquisite creature she is," the mother now murmured in my
ear. "Look at her well--she can bear it--and tell me where in the world
you will find beauty more entrancing or a nature lovelier and more
enticing?"
"Madam," said I, turning upon her with a severity the moment seemed to
deserve, "In a den of contamination, amid surroundings such as it will
not do for me to mention even before her who could make use of them to
destroy the innocence that trusted in her, there lies the dead body of
one as pure, as lovely, and as attractive as this; indeed her beauty is
more winning for it has not the stamp of worldliness upon it."
The mother before me grew livid. Her brows contracted and she advanced
upon me with a menacing gesture almost as if she would strike me. In
all my experience of the world and of her I had never seen such rage;
it was all but appalling. Involuntarily I raised my hand, in defence.
But she had already remembered her position and by a violent change now
stood before me calm and collected as of old.
"You have been injured by me and have acquired the right to insult me,"
cried she. Then as I made no move, said: "It is not of the dead we were
speaking. It was of her, Samuel Pollard's _child_. Do you intend to
ruin her happiness or do you not? Speak, for it is a question I
naturally desire to have settled."
"Madam," I now returned, edging away from that window with its
seductive picture of youthful joy, "before I can settle it I must know
certain facts. Not till I understand how you succeeded in enticing her
from her home, and by what means you transferred her into the care of
the vile woman who took your place, will I undertake to consider the
possibility of withholding the denunciation which it is in my power to
make."
"And you expect me to tell--" she began.
"Every thing," I finished, firmly.
She smiled with a drawing in of her lips that was feline. Then she
glared; then she looked about her and approached nearer to me by
another step.
"I wish I could kill you," her look said. "I wish by the lifting of my
finger you would fall dead." But her lips made use of no such language.
She was caught in the toils, and lioness as she was, found herself
forced to obey the will that ensnared her.
"You want facts; well, you shall have them. You want to know how I
managed to induce Miss Merriam to leave the house where my husband had
put her. It is a simple question. Was I not her grandfather's wife, and
could I not be supposed to know what his desires were concerning her?"
"And the second fact?"
She looked at me darkly.
"You are very curious," said she.
"I am," said I.
Her baleful smile repeated itself.
"You think that by these confessions I will place myself in a position
which will make it impossible for me, to press my request. You do not
understand me, sir. Had I committed ten times the evil I have done,
that would not justify you in wantonly destroying the happiness of the
innocent."
"I wish to know the facts," I said.
"She went with me to a respectable eating house," Mrs. Pollard at once
explained. "Leave her to eat her lunch, I went to a place near by,
where the woman you saw, met me by appointment, and putting on the
clothes I had worn, went back for the girl in my stead. As I had taken
pains not to raise my veil except just at the moment when I wanted to
convince her I was her natural guardian, the woman had only to hold her
tongue to make the deception successful. That she did this is evident
from the result. Is there any thing more you would like to know?"