inconceivable wickedness, yet steadily resolved to probe it to the very
depths. "What did you hope to gain by this deliberate plan of
destruction? The girl's death, or simply her degradation?"
The passion in this woman's soul found its vent at last.
"I hoped to lose her; to blot her out of my path--and hers," she more
gently added, pointing with a finger that trembled with more than one
fierce emotion, at the daughter for whom she had sacrificed so much. "I
did not think the girl would die; I am no murderess whatever intimation
you may make to that effect. I am simply a mother."
A mother! O horrible! I looked at her and recoiled. That such a one as
this should have the right to lay claim to so holy a title and asperse
it thus!
She viewed my emotion but made no sign of understanding it. Her words
poured forth like a stream of burning liquid.
"Do you realize what this girl's living meant? It meant recognition,
and consequently disgrace and a division of our property, the loss of
my daughter's dowry, and of all the hopes she had built on it. Was I,
who had given to Samuel Pollard the very money by means of which he had
made his wealth, to stand this? Not if a hundred daughters of convicts
must perish."
"And your sons?"
"What of them?"
"Had they no claim upon your consideration. When you plunged them into
this abyss of greed and deceit did no phantom of their lost manhood
rise and confront you with an unanswerable reproach?"
But she remained unmoved.
"My sons are men; they can take care of themselves."
"But Dwight--"
Her self-possession vanished.
"Hush!" she whispered with a quick look around her. "Do not mention
him. I have sent him away an hour ago but he may have come back. I do
not trust him."
This last clause she uttered beneath her breath and with a spasmodic
clutch of her hand which showed she spoke involuntarily. I was moved at
this. I began to hope that Dwight at least, was not all that his mother
would have him.
"And yet I must speak of him," said I, taking out the letter he had
written to Miss Merriam. "This letter addressed to one you have so
successfully destroyed seems to show that he returns your mistrust."
She almost tore it out of my hands.
"When was this letter received?" she asked, reading it with burning
eyes and writhing lips.
"The day after Miss Grace left her home."
"Then she never saw it?"
"No."
"Who has seen it?"
"Myself and you."
"No one else?"
"No one but the writer."
She laughed.
"We will destroy it," she said; and deliberately tore it up.
I stooped and picked up the fragments.
"You forget," said I, "this letter may be called for by the coroner. It
is known that I took it in charge."
"I might better have burnt it," she hissed.
"Not so, I should then have had to explain its loss."
Her old fear came back into her eyes.
"Now I have merely to give it up and leave it to Mr. Dwight Pollard to
explain it. He doubtless can."
"My son will never betray his mother."
"Yet he could write this letter."
She frowned.
"Dwight has his weakness," said she.
"It is a pity his weakness did not lead him to send this letter a few
hours sooner."
"That is where his very weakness fails. He struggles because he knows
his mother partly, and fails because he does not know her wholly."
"And Guy?"
"He knows me better."
The smile with which this was said was the culminating point in a
display of depravity such as I had never beheld, even in hovels of
acknowledged vice. Feeling that I could not endure much more, I
hastened to finish the interview.
"Madam," said I, "by your own acknowledgment you deserve neither
consideration nor mercy. What leniency I then show will be for your
daughter alone, who, in so far as I can see, is innocent and
undeserving of the great retribution which I could so easily bring upon
this family. But do not think because I promise to suppress your name
from the account I may be called upon to give the coroner, that your
sin will be forgotten by Heaven, or this young girl's death go
unavenged. As sure as you are the vilest woman I ever met, will
suffering and despair overtake you. I do not know when, and I do not
know by what means, but it will be bitter when it comes, and the hand
of man will not be able to save you."
But it was as if I had not spoken. All she seemed to hear, all, at
least, that she paid the least attention to, was the promise I had made.
"You are decided, then, upon secrecy?" she asked.
"I am decided upon saying nothing that will bring your name into public
notice."
Her proud manner immediately returned. You would have thought she had
never suffered a humiliation.
"But how will you account for your interest in this young person?"
"By telling a portion of the truth. I shall say that my attention was
called to her by a letter from Mr. Pollard requesting me to hunt her up
and take care of her after he was dead. I shall not say he called her
his grandchild unless I am positively forced to do so, nor will I
mention the treatment I have received at your hands."
"And the woman you saw?"
"Is your business. I have nothing to do with her."
The shadow which till this moment rested upon her haughty brow, cleared
away. With a quick gesture, from which she could not entirely exclude a
betrayal of triumph, she dropped the curtain across that charming
picture of bridal felicity by which she had won so much, and turning
upon me with all the condescension of a conqueror, she exclaimed:
"I once did you an injustice, Mr. Barrows, and called you a name that
was but little complimentary to your cloth. Allow me to make such
amends as I can and call you what you most surely are--the most
generous and least vindictive of men."
This was intolerable. I made haste to leave the room.
"Mrs. Pollard," said I, "no amenities can take place between us. From
this hour on we are strangers, till the time conies when we shall
appear before the judgment-seat of God. In that day, neither you nor I
can hold back one iota of the truth. Think of this, and repent your
part in this awful tragedy of sin, if you can." And I turned away
toward the door.
But just as I was about to open it, it swung slowly aside, and in the
frame-work made by the lintels, I saw Guy Pollard standing with a quiet
look of inquiry on his face.
"Mother," said he, in the calmest and most courteous of tones, "shall I
let this gentleman pass?"
The reply came in accents equally calm and courteous:
"Certainly, my son."
And Guy Pollard made me a deep bow, and drew softly aside from my path.
I had been within an inch of my death, but it scarcely ruffled me.
XXVII.
REPARATION.
If hearts are weak, souls should at least be strong.
I will be brief, for my short date of breath
Is not so long as is a tedious tale.
--ROMEO AND JULIET.
Let me hasten to the end.
When I told Mrs. Pollard that I would suppress that portion of the
truth which connected her name with this fatal affair, I did not of
course mean that I would resort to any falsehood or even prevarication.
I merely relied upon the improbability of my being questioned close
enough to necessitate my being obliged to reveal the astounding facts
which made this matter a destructive one for the Pollards. And I was
right in my calculations. Neither socially, nor at the formal inquiry
before the coroner, was any question raised of relationship between the
dead girl and the family in S----; and this fact, taken with the
discreet explanations accorded by Dwight Pollard of his father's, and
afterwards of his own interest in her, as shown in the letter which he
had sent to her address, is the reason why this affair passed without
scandal to the parties concerned.
But not without results for deep down in the heart of one person an
influence was at work, destined ere long to eventuate in the tragedy to
which these lines are the clue. Remorse deep as my nature and immovable
as my sin, has gotten hold upon me, and nothing short of death, and
death in the very shape from which I fled in such a cowardly manner,
will ever satisfy my soul or allay that burning sense of shame and
regret which makes me fear the eye of man and quake at the thought of
eternal justice.
For in a final interview with Dwight Pollard I have become convinced
that, however unprincipled his brother might be, it was with no
intention of carrying out his threats that he plunged me into the vat
on that fatal night; that, recognizing the weakness in me, he had
resorted to intimidation to ensure his ends; and that all the
consequences which followed might have been averted, if I had but
remained true to my trust.
Being a Christian minister, and bound by my creed and faith to resist
the devil and face the wrath of men, my dereliction in this regard
acquires an importance not to be measured by the ordinary standard of
law or social usage. For, when I failed to support my principles under
trial, Christian faith was betrayed and the avowed power of God put to
mockery and shame. I go, therefore, to the death I then shunned,
deliberately, conscientiously, determinedly. For the sake of God, for
the sake of honor, for the sake of those higher principles which it
should be the glory of men to sustain at all risk and in every furnace
of affliction, I lay down youth, love, and life, confident that if in
so doing I rob one sweet soul of its happiness, I sow anew in other
hearts the seed of that stern belief in God and the requirements of our
faith which my cowardly act must have gone so far to destroy.
May God accept the sacrifice in the spirit in which I perform it, and
in His gracious mercy make light, not the horrors of the pit into which
I am about to descend, but the heart of him who must endure them.
Whether long or short, they will be such as He sends me, and the end
must be peace.
XXVIII.
TWO OR ONE.
How all the other passions fleet to air,
As doubtful thoughts and rash embrac'd despair,
And shuddering fear, and green-ey'd jealousy.
O love, be moderate; allay thy ecstasy.
--MER. OF VENICE.
I had finished it; the last line had been read, and I sat in a maze of
astonishment and awe. What my thoughts were, what my judgment upon this
astounding act of self-destruction for conscience sake, it will not
interest you to know. In a matter so complicated with questions of
right and wrong, each man must feel for himself, and out of his own
nature adjudge praise, or express censure; I, Constance Sterling, shall
do neither; I can only wonder and be still.
One point, however, in this lengthy confession I will allude to, as it
involves a fact. Mr. Barrows says that he goes to his death, the same
death from which he fled when he yielded to the threats of Guy Pollard
and gave up the will. He expected, therefore, to find the vat dry, and
looked forward to hours, if not days, of long-drawn suffering in a spot
devoid of warmth, light, water, and food. His injunction to Ada in that
last letter of his--not to make any move to find him for ten
days--favors this idea, and proves what his expectations were.
But, by the mercy of God, the vat had been half filled with water in
the interim which had elapsed between his first and last visit to the
mill, and the prison thus becoming a cistern, he must have come to his
end in a few moments after his fatal plunge. It was the one relief
which a contemplation of this tragedy brought to my overwrought mind.
But with the next day came a reaction; and with a heart full of
rejoicing, I prepared to communicate to Dwight Pollard the fact of his
release from the dominion of Rhoda Colwell. For whether this record of
the past showed him to be a man worthy of full honor or not, it
certainly sufficed to exonerate him from all suspicion of being the
direct cause of David Barrow's death, and I knew her well enough, or
thought I did, to feel certain that no revenge, unless the greatest,
would ever satisfy her, and that in losing her hold upon his life and
love, she would make no attempt that would merely darken his name
before the world. It was therefore with a fearless heart I penned the
following lines.
MISS COLWELL:
Your suspicions were unfounded. I have Mr. Barrows' own words to the
effect that he meditated death by imprisonment in the vat. I go to
acquaint Dwight Pollard with the fact that any accusation on your part
must fail before the minute and circumstantial confession which Mr.
Barrows has left behind him.
Signing this letter, I despatched it at once to its destination; then
taking the important manuscript in my hand, I set out for the Pollard
mansion.
It was a day full of sunshine and promise. As I sped through the
streets and approached that end of the town which hitherto it had taken
all my courage to face, I was astonished at the lightness of my own
heart and the beneficent aspect which every object about me seemed to
have acquired. Even the place I had come to visit looked less dreary
than usual, and I found myself in the grounds and half way up the
stoop, before I realized the least falling of that shadow which seemed
inseparable from this particular spot. And even now it only came with
the thought of Guy, whose possible presence at the door would be any
thing but desirable. But my errand being one of peace I was enabled to
contemplate even this contingency with equanimity, and was about to
ring the bell with a trembling but determined hand, when the door
suddenly opened and Dwight Pollard stood before me.
The look of surprise and delight which he gave me brought the color to
my cheeks.
"Ah, what a pleasure!" he murmured. Then with a quick look in my face,
added earnestly, "You bring good news."
"The best," I answered cheerily, and following him in, I took my stand
once more in that dismal parlor where weeks ago I had received my first
intimation of the feeling which his every look and gesture now conveyed.
"Mr. Pollard," I now managed to say with a certain dignity, "you see me
here because Providence has lately put into my hands a document which
completely exonerates you from the charges which Rhoda Colwell has
threatened to make against you. Read it, and when you understand the
tragedy we so much deplore, we will see how much or how little can be
done with the lives it has so deeply affected." And placing the thickly
written sheets in his hands I withdrew to the first window I saw and
mechanically threw aside the curtains that hid it.
The sight that met my gaze made me for an instant forget the importance
of what I had just done. The window I had chosen was the one which
looked into the conservatory, and the picture which Mr. Barrows
describes as having seen from this spot was then and there before my
eyes. The tropical growth, the gorgeous blossoms, even the beautiful
woman and the sturdy man. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington were lovers, then,
still. The mother's death and that of the devoted clergyman had not
served to reveal the secret which secured the happiness of this bright,
attractive, if somewhat worldly, pair. I own I was glad of this, little
as I felt myself in sympathy with the radiant but superficial Agnes.
Youth, love, and joy are so precious that it lightens the heart to
behold their sunshine even on the faces of those whose characters we do
not envy.
Nevertheless, the thoughts suggested by this unexpected scene did not
long serve to distract me from the more serious matter in hand.
Dropping the curtains, I cast one look, toward Mr. Pollard. He was
sitting with his face bent over the manuscript, a deep corrugation
marked his brow, and a settled look of pain his mouth. I turned away
again; I could not bear that look; all my strength was needed for the
effort which it might possibly be my duty to make. I sat down in a
remote corner and diligently set my soul to patience.
It was well, for my suspense was long, so long that hope and courage
began to fail and an inward trembling to take the place of the joyous
emotions with which I had placed this confession in his hands.
Nevertheless, it came to an end at last, and, with an agitation easy to
conceive, I heard him roll the manuscript up, rise, and approach to
where I sat. I did not look up, I could not; but I felt his gaze
burning through my half-closed lids, and terrified lest I should reveal
my weakness and my hopes, I set my lips together, and stilled the
beatings of my heart, till I must have struck his sense with the chill
and immobility of a totally insensible woman. The despair which the
sight caused him, showed itself in his tone when he spoke.
"You share my own opinion of myself," said he. "You consider me the
destroyer of Mr. Barrows."
I looked up. What grief, what shame, what love I beheld in the face
above me. Slowly I shook my head.
"Mr. Barrows does not accuse you," said I. Then, determined to be
truthful to the core at all risks and at all hazards, I added
earnestly, "But you were to blame; greatly to blame; I shall never hide
that fact from you or from myself. I should be unworthy of your esteem
if I did."
"Yes," he earnestly assented, "and I would be less than a man if I did
not agree with you." Then, in a lower tone and with greater earnestness
yet, continued, "It is not pleasant for a man to speak ill of his own
flesh and blood; but after having read words as condemnatory as these,
it may be pardoned me, perhaps, if I speak as much of the truth as is
necessary to present myself in a fair light to the woman upon whose
good opinion rests all my future happiness. Constance, I love you--"
But at this word I had hurriedly risen.
"Oh!" I somewhat incoherently exclaimed; "not here! not under your own
roof!"
But at his look I sank back.
"Yes," he imperatively cried, "here and now. I cannot wait another day,
another hour. My love for you is too great, too absorbing, for any
paltry considerations to interpose themselves upon my attention now. I
must tell you what you are to me, and ask you, as you are a just and
honest woman, to listen while I lay bare to you my life--the life I
long to consecrate to your happiness, Constance."
I looked up.
"Thank you," he murmured; but whether in return for my look or the
smile which his look involuntarily called up, I cannot say, for he went
on instantly in continuation of his former train of thought,
"Constance, you have read this confession from Mr. Barrows which you
have just placed in my hands?"
"Yes," I nodded gravely.
"You can, then, understand what a dilemma we were in some three months
ago. My sister had attracted the notice of an English aristocrat. He
loved her and wished to marry her. We admired him--or rather we admired
his position (I would be bitterly true at this hour) and wished to see
the union effected. But there was a secret in our family, which if
known, would make such a marriage impossible. A crime perpetrated
before my birth had attached disgrace to our name and race, and Mr.
Harrington is a man to fly disgrace quicker than he would death. Miss
Sterling, it would be useless for me to try to make myself out better
than I am. When I heard that my father, whom I am just beginning to
revere but of whom in those days I had rather a careless opinion, was
determined to acknowledge his convict son through the daughter which
had been sent over here, I revolted. Not that I begrudged this young
girl the money he wished to leave her,--though from a somewhat morbid
idea of reparation which my father possessed, he desired to give her an
amount that would materially affect our fortunes--but that I loved my
sister, and above all loved the proud and isolated position we had
obtained in society, and could not endure the results which the
revelation of such a stain in, our family must produce. Not my mother,
whose whole life since her marriage had been one haughty protest
against this secret shame, nor Guy, with all his cynicism and pride,
felt stronger on this point than I. To my warped judgment any action
within the bounds of reason seemed justifiable that would prevent my
dying father from bringing this disgrace upon his children; and being
accustomed to defer to my mother's judgments and desires,--she was not
only a powerful woman, Constance, but possessed of a strange
fascination for those she loved and sought to govern--I lent myself
sufficiently to her schemes to stand neutral in the struggle between my
father's wishes and her determination, though that father would often
turn upon me with a gaze of entreaty that went to my heart. That he had
taken advantage of his last journey to Boston to have a new will drawn,
and that his only desire now was for an opportunity to get this same
safely transferred into the hands of his lawyer, I never suspected any
more than did my mother or brother. We thought that as far as the past
was concerned we were secure, and that if we could prevent an interview
between him and Mr. Nicholls, the future would likewise be safe from a
discovery of our secret It was therefore a terrible shock to my mother
and afterwards to me when we learned that he had already accomplished
the act we so much dreaded and that the clergyman we had called in at
my father's urgent request, had been entrusted with the paper that was
to proclaim our shame to the world. But the disappointment, great as it
was, had little time to exert its force on me, for with my brother's
recital of what had taken place at my father's death-bed there came a
new dread which I find it difficult to name but which you will
understand when I say that it led me to give Mr. Barrows the warning of
which he has spoken. My brother--I cannot speak of him with
calmness--is a man to be feared, Miss Sterling. Not that I would not be
a match for him in all matters of open enmity; but in ways of secrecy
and deep dealing, he is master, and all the more to be dreaded that he
makes it impossible for one to understand him or measure the depths of
turpitude to which he would descend. When, therefore I heard him say he
should have that will back before it could pass into the hands of Mr.
Nicholls, I trembled; and as the night passed and morning came without
showing any diminution in the set determination of his expression, I
decided upon visiting Mr. Barrows, in the hope of influencing him to
return the will of his own accord. But I soon saw that in spite of the
weakness I detected in him there was small prospect of his doing this;
and turning my steps home again, I confronted my mother and my brother
and asked them what they meant to do; they told me, that is, they told
me partly; and I, with that worse dread in my soul, was fain to be
satisfied with the merely base and dishonorable scheme they meditated.
To take Mr. Barrows at a disadvantage, to argue with him, threaten him,
and perhaps awe him by place and surroundings to surrender to them the
object of their desires, did not seem to me so dreadful, when I thought
of what they might have done or might yet attempt to do if I stood in
their way too much. So, merely stipulating that they would allow me to
accompany them to the mill, I let matters take their course, and true
to my own secret desire to retain their confidence and so save him, and
if possible them, from any act that would entail consequences of a
really serious nature, I gave them my assistance to the extent of
receiving Mr. Barrows at the door and conducting him through the mill
to the room which my brother had designated to me as the one in which
they proposed to hold their conference.