There was a fire in Richard's temples as he reeled out of Lawyer
Perkins's office. It was now twelve o'clock, and the streets were
thronged with the motley population disgorged by the various mills
and workshops. Richard felt that every eye was upon him; he was
conscious of something wild in his aspect that must needs attract the
attention of the passers-by. At each step he half expected the
leveling of some accusing finger. The pitiless sunshine seemed to
single him out and stream upon him like a calcium light. It was
intolerable. He must get away from this jostling crowd, this babel of
voices. What should he do, where should he go? To return to the yard
and face the workmen was not to be thought of; if he went to his
lodgings he would be called to dinner, and have to listen to the
inane prattle of the school-master. That would be even more
intolerable than this garish daylight, and these careless squads of
men and women who paused in the midst of their laugh to turn and
stare. Was there no spot in Stillwater where a broken man could hide
himself long enough to collect his senses?
With his hands thrust convulsively into the pockets of his
sack-coat, Richard turned down a narrow passage-way fringing the rear
of some warehouses. As he hurried along aimlessly his fingers
encountered something in one of his pockets. It was the key of a new
lock which had been put on the scullery door of the house in Welch's
Court. Richard's heart gave a quick throb. There at least was a
temporary refuge; he would go there and wait until it was time for
him to surrender himself to the officers.
It appeared to Richard that he was nearly a year reaching the
little back yard of the lonely house. He slipped into the scullery
and locked the door, wondering if his movements had been observed
since he quitted the main street. Here he drew a long breath and
looked around him; then he began wandering restlessly through the
rooms, of which there were five or six on the ground-floor. The
furniture, the carpets, and all the sordid fixtures of the house were
just as Richard had known them in his childhood. Everything was
unchanged, even to the faded peacock-feather stuck over the parlor
looking-glass. As he regarded the familiar objects and breathed the
snuffy atmosphere peculiar to the place, the past rose so vividly
before him that he would scarcely have been startled if a lean, gray
old man had suddenly appeared in one of the doorways. On a peg in the
front hall hung his cousin's napless beaver hat, satirically ready to
be put on; in the kitchen closet a pair of ancient shoes, worn down
at the heel and with taps on the toe, had all the air of intending to
step forth. The shoes had been carefully blacked, but a thin skin of
mould had gathered over them. They looked like Lemuel Shackford. They
had taken a position habitual with him. Richard was struck by the
subtile irony which lay in these inanimate things. That a man's hat
should outlast the man, and have a jaunty expression of triumph! That
a dead man's shoes should mimic him!
The tall eight-day clock on the landing had run down. It had
stopped at twelve, and it now stood with solemnly uplifted finger, as
if imposing silence on those small, unconsidered noises which
commonly creep out, like mice, only at midnight. The house was full
of such stealthy sounds. The stairs creaked at intervals,
mysteriously, as if under the weight of some heavy person ascending.
Now and then the woodwork stretched itself with a snap, as though it
had grown stiff in the joints with remaining so long in one position.
At times there were muffled reverberations of footfalls on the
flooring overhead. Richard had a curious consciousness of not being
alone, but of moving in the midst of an invisible throng of persons
who elbowed him softly and breathed in his face, and vaguely
impressed themselves upon him as being former occupants of the
premises. This populous solitude, this silence with its busy
interruptions, grew insupportable as he passed from room to room.
One chamber he did not enter,--the chamber in which his cousin's
body was found that Wednesday morning. In Richard's imagination it
was still lying there, white and piteous, by the hearth. He paused at
the threshold and glanced in; then turned abruptly and mounted the
staircase.
On gaining his old apartment in the gable, Richard seated himself
on the edge of the cot-bed. His shoulders sagged down and a stupefied
expression settled upon his face, but his brain was in a tumult. His
own identity was become a matter of doubt to him. Was he the same
Richard Shackford who had found life so sweet when he awoke that
morning? IT must have been some other person who had sat by a window
in the sunrise thinking of Margaret Slocum's love,--some Richard
Shackford with unstained hands! This one was accused of murdering his
kinsman; the weapon with which he had done it, the very match he had
used to light him in the deed, were known! The victim himself had
written out the accusation in black and white. Richard's brain reeled
as he tried to fix his thought on Lemuel Shackford's letter. That
letter!--where had it been all this while, and how did it come into
Taggett's possession? Only one thing was clear to Richard in his
inextricable confusion,--he was not going to be able to prove his
innocence; he was a doomed man, and within the hour his shame would
be published to the world. Rowland Slocum and Lawyer Perkins had
already condemned him, and Margaret would condemn him when she knew
all; for it was evident that up to last evening she had not been
told. How did it happen that these overwhelming proofs had rolled
themselves up against him? What malign influences were these at work,
hurrying him on to destruction, and not leaving a single loophole of
escape? Who would believe the story of his innocent ramble on the
turnpike that Tuesday night? Who could doubt that he had gone
directly from the Slocums' to Welch's Court, and then crept home
red-handed through the deserted streets?
Richard heard the steam-whistles recalling the operatives to work,
and dimly understood it was one o'clock; but after that he paid no
attention to the lapse of time. It was an hour later, perhaps two
hours,--Richard could not tell,--when he roused himself from his
stupor, and descending the stairs passed through the kitchen into the
scullery. There he halted and leaned against the sink, irresolute, as
though his purpose, if he had had a purpose, were escaping him. He
stood with his eyes resting listlessly on a barrel in the further
corner of the apartment. It was a heavy-hooped wine-cask, in which
Lemuel Shackford had been wont to keep his winter's supply of salted
meat. Suddenly Richard started forward with an inarticulate cry, and
at the same instant there came a loud knocking at the door behind
him. The sound reverberated through the empty house, filling the
place with awful echoes,--like those knocks at the gate of Macbeth's
castle the night of Duncan's murder. Richard stood petrified for a
second; then he hastily turned the key in the lock, and Mr. Taggett
stepped into the scullery.
The two men exchanged swift glances. The bewildered air of a
moment before had passed from Richard; the dullness had faded out of
his eyes, leaving them the clear, alert expression they ordinarily
wore. He was self-possessed, but the effort his self-possession cost
him was obvious. There was a something in his face--a dilation of the
nostril, a curve of the under lip--which put Mr. Taggett very much on
his guard. Mr. Taggett was the first to speak.
"I've a disagreeable mission here," he said slowly, with his hand
remaining on the latch of the door, which he had closed on entering.
"I have a warrant for your arrest, Mr. Shackford."
"Stop a moment!" said Richard, with a glow in his eyes. "I have
something to say."
"I advise you not to make any statement."
"I understand my position perfectly, Mr. Taggett, and I shall
disregard the advice. After you have answered me one or two
questions, I shall be quite at your service."
"If you insist, then."
"You were present at the examination of Thomas Blufton and William
Durgin, were you not?"
"I was."
"You recollect William Durgin's testimony?"
"Most distinctly."
"He stated that the stains on his clothes were from a certain
barrel, the head of which had been freshly painted red."
"I remember."
"Mr. Taggett, _the head of that barrel was painted blue!"_