_By_ WM. MERRIT
Thornton Stowe was always a puzzle to me. Very methodical in everything
from early childhood, he always seemed utterly devoid of impulsive
emotion. The only thing he ever did that really surprised me was to
suddenly declare, one evening, that he loved Josephine Thralton and was
betrothed to her.
Soon, vague rumors about Stowe’s private life were breathed around
town, and his fianceé married Lakeland; the thick lipped, pock marked,
red nosed political boss of the town, whose character was known and
unquestioned, and about which each citizen held a private, unvoiced
opinion.
I left town shortly after the wedding, and all that I heard of Stowe
after that was a newspaper account of his killing Lakeland. I then wrote
him the only letter since my departure; but knew him too well to expect
an answer.
I returned, unannounced, one dreary afternoon in November. Quickening
my steps as I left the depot, I turned toward the roller mill, which to
the world was Stowe’s sole vocation, but to me, only his avocation for
the purpose of defraying expenses of the work in his private chemical
laboratory.
I had left him experimenting with an explosive gas which was more
powerful and much cheaper than the most modern gunpowder. But it corroded
every metal known, except gold. If he could only find some means of
eliminating this fault, his fortune would be made.
As I hurried through the heart of town, a lone pedestrian, who seemed
to shudder at the doleful dirge of the bare tree limbs overhead, and to
shrink from looking at the gloomy, leaden skies beyond, approached with
stooped shoulders and bowed head. It was Thornton Stowe; but he had so
changed since I had seen him last that, had he not spoken, I would have
passed him by. On the instant of recognition I was about to greet him
cheerfully, but there was such an air of pathos in his whole bearing
that I merely walked up and gripped his hand. It was as listless as his
spirits, and he looked into my eyes with a silent appeal that sickened my
soul to think of the emotions that impelled it.
Finally I ventured, “How’s business in the old town now, Thornt?” I had
almost asked: “What’s the trouble?” but remembered that he had killed
Lakeland in July and, although he had been cleared on the plea of “self
defense” I felt a delicacy in arousing such reminiscences in a man of his
temperament.
His reply puzzled me:
“Let’s go on home to dinner. I’ve got to tell it to somebody.”
He left me to my conjectures the rest of the way to his home, a large
gray brick house, a mansion for that little town, where he lived alone
with a faithful old negro man, an ex-slave, who prepared his meals and
kept the house in order. The untrimmed ivy on the walls of the old
antibellum home was in keeping with the neglected condition of the house,
which looked now like an old deserted castle. There was no light in the
front windows, although it was long after sundown. As we approached, my
spirits were damped with awe at the weird aspect. A premonition of horror
haunted me and it was only by a tremendous effort that I refrained from
making some excuse to go immediately to the hotel.
* * * * *
The door swung open noiselessly and easily and Stowe switched on the
lights in the hall. Everything was green, the sickly, poisonous green
of a stagnant tarn. The grim monotony of the hideous color, and the
suddenness with which the horrible aspect was revealed was appalling. The
curtains were green, the walls were green, the woodwork and furniture
were all green. With each turn of my head I was confronted by nothing but
that nauseating hue. My head swam. The ghastly invariable color seemed to
be pressing my eyeballs back into their sockets and irresistibly closing
ever closer and closer around me with its overwhelming and unbroken
density. The dull light from the green globe that hung in the center of
the hall seemed to stifle me. I was on the point of rushing back to the
street in frantic terror.
We disposed of our coats and hats without a word and walked back to the
library. Again everything was the same ghastly green. The impelling
terror of aggravated claustrophobia rushed back upon me with redoubled
fury. I could not by force of will power, nor by artifice of reason,
shake off the uncanny dread that haunted me; but was now determined to
stay.
Drinks were served, and my host then addressed me for the first time
since we had started home from the street; merely:
“Help yourself.”
He reached eagerly for a green bottle on the tray, drank two glasses of
absinthe from it, then rested his elbows on the table and stared steadily
at me for a few moments.
The real specter now rose before me: had he killed Lakeland for self
defense or was it merely the diabolic fancy of a lunatic? If, with the
precise cunning of a maniac, he had devised a scheme so intricate and
flawless that it had baffled even the eye witnesses, then I was at the
mercy of a man, known to have the power of thought impelled by passions
and emotions and not controlled by reason.
He began in an even hollow voice:
“I guess you know why I killed Lakeland.”
“I heard they found ‘self defense,’” I admitted.
He swallowed a glass of wine at a gulp, then sneered with a note of irony:
“Unquestionable evidence. Lakeland is the only man who has ever even
suspected that I intended to kill him when I shook hands with him.
“You can guess the first thing he did: but he was Josephine’s husband
before I learned who started those stories. I felt that she hadn’t given
me a fair chance to disprove all he had said and I resolved to forget
her; but when I saw her getting paler and thinner because of the life she
had to live, I couldn’t help feeling a sympathy for her. When Lakeland
wanted to buy back the mill I had bought from his father because he had
found it to be the best paying business in town, I was fool enough to
tell him I’d trade with him if he would stop drinking. Of course he just
told me to go to hell with my morals and threw all his money into an
effort to kill my business.
“I played the game with him until all my men suddenly refused to work
longer, and refused to explain why. That was too much; I shoved a pistol
into my pocket and went in search of him that very afternoon. When I
found him, he was, as usual, beastly drunk. To shoot him then would
convict me of murder in the first degree. Besides, I couldn’t snuff his
life out that way if my revenge was to be sweet. He must know about it,
for half the delight of revenge would be in knowing that I had made him
suffer without its costing me a thing.”