MONTCALM FINDS DANTE INACCURATE.
On the second night after the inquest Montcalm fell into his first
slumber since the nocturnal expedition which had robbed him of
Nature's restorative and had deprived Green of mortal existence. In
that state in which the reasoning faculties are yielding to the need
of rest, the gradual transition from balanced consciousness to
uncertain fancy, he thought he saw a broad, smoothly flowing river.
The green meadow beside it, the adjacent woods, where huge trees
seemed ineffectually striving to form bridges, were familiar to him.
The house in which he was born he saw for an instant before its place
was occupied by other objects. A cool breeze came from the water,
bringing to him vigor and placidity. He had a strange sensation, yet
it was one of peace. He was that river. In his way were no greater
trials than the fallen trees which he swept around without
inconvenience from their presence or animosity for their
interference.
His being was now divided, but the division was unequal. A certain
amount of perception alone, stripped of the power of action,
separated from the river. Through this perception the dreamer
continued his fancies. He could no longer see the river, which
retained his capacity for good or evil, his moral responsibility.
Gradually the stream narrowed and became more turbulent. This was
indicated by the roar of its waters, which, continually rising in
pitch, betokened the decline of power and the increase of violence.
The cataract, for such it had grown to be, was now as small as that
which falls over a schoolboy's dam. Still it decreased in size until
it was no larger than an ordinary hand, and soon its water could have
been drained as fast as it fell by a thirsty man. Montcalm started as
the stream underwent its last diminution. Once before he had heard
that measured trickling. Some time elapsed ere he could turn his head
and view the remains of that river, which had parted with strength,
beauty and serenity. At last he saw the dropping liquid, but it was
not water. It was falling from the end of a plank into a well with a
barrel curb. On the plank was the source of the stream, the form of a
man with skull cloven and with brain exposed. The frightful wound,
which was presented toward Montcalm, showed him that the victim was
still cognizant of current events, for shadows of thought were
passing along the convolutions of the cerebrum. The shadows, or
waves, had no regularity of form or of appearance. At times they
moved slowly, at others they passed with great rapidity, like the
spokes of a swiftly revolving wheel. The eyes were fixed and lurid,
but they were frequently darkened by clouds of meaning, the shades
which were sweeping along the brain. The face, undergoing the not
unusual exaggeration of dreams, alternately lengthened and broadened,
one dimension reaching its maximum development as the other attained
its minimum. The sleeper believed its hue was ghastlier than that of
death. He reached the climax of his fright when the dead man, by a
convulsive effort, changed his features to the aspect of life and
fastened on him a look such as he might have given a poor neighbor on
whose meager possessions he had a mortgage which he meant
relentlessly to foreclose. He knew that Green never gave that wink
and leer except when some cherished project of vengeance or finance
was materializing to a certainty.
The repulsive object on the plank was once more hideously distorted.
As the chin dropped in an abnormal distension, the mouth opened and
seemed about to close on Montcalm, who inert and helpless, dreaded
the first touch of the jagged lips. From the cavernous throat
deformed beings beckoned to him to join them. What heightened his
fear was a mad impulse to precipitate himself into the yawning chasm,
an act which he knew would be followed by the most appalling
consequences. Strenuously he tried to escape. Not a muscle would
contract to help him in his emergency. Finally his will-power
prevailed and he was able to flee. Leaving the cellar, he entered the
apartment on the ground floor. Instantly from the vicinity of the
well came the clamor of pursuit, and after him sprang a dozen men. He
was in a very large house which he was determined to quit, but every
door which he opened disclosed to him a division of the infinitely
vast building. He raced from room to room, from each of which,
sustaining a sharp conflict, he emerged, invariably frightened and
invariably unhurt. His desperate defense was not prompted by courage,
for he had but one desire, that of finding safety at whatever cost.
His adversaries, on the contrary, though often driven back had
stricken down, returned each time to the attack, not in the least
dismayed by the blows which they had received. Presently they forced
him to a corner from which he could not retreat. His guard was beaten
down, and he was at the mercy of his pitiless enemies. They
surrounded him, raising high their bludgeons, which poised an instant
before descending.
With a gigantic leap he crashed through the wall and trod the solid
earth. Given on this footing an unnatural speed, he swept over
fields, fences and woods, barely treading the ground and propelling
himself far at every light touch of his foot. No longer were his
pursuers in sight or hearing, but fearful of the approach, he would
not abate his exertions.
Before him was the great swamp, and his route was the causeway east
of Ratke's. He was almost flying along the road, by the side of which
the tamaracks grew large and tall, when to his inexpressible horror
Archer arose from the bushes, pointed a revolver at him and fired.
The shot at once robbed him of his great speed, and in his face blew
a strong wind against which he could make little headway. His
pursuers again drew new. With savage gesticulations and yells of
triumph the pressed about him. In the intensity of despair he felt
that he could neither flee nor fight. Helplessly he looked aloft and
prayed for relief. As with limbs paralyzed, but with senses painfully
acute, he lay momentarily expecting destruction, an angelic form
flitted to his rescue, and interposing its bright wings, parried the
threatening clubs.
The mien of the angel was benign and serene. Merciful in his
strength, he did not injure those who were endeavoring to kill the
wretch who had secured his intervention. Montcalm, confident in the
will and ability of this being to protect him, imploringly clutched
the hem of his garment. The angel stooped and lifted him; and
together, propelled by those bright wings, hand in hand, they sped
away at a rate which defied pursuit. Their course was midway between
the horizontal and the vertical. Terrestrial objects, trees, rivers,
hills and plains, blended indistinguishably together on the surface
of the disappearing planet, which, a non-luminous ball, was drawing
its dusky outlines into smaller compass.
Measureless was the space through which they flew. Montcalm became
aware that his feet now and then met a substance which, though not
solid, was more tangible than air. His footing grew firmer. He was
entering a land where the common objects of inhabited earth were
wanting, where irregularly formed bodies cast shadows along the
uneven surface. A dull red glare, hovering over a strip of the
horizon, gave a quantity of light insufficient to make vision plain.
He drew closer to his protector, for he was intimidated by the
unfamiliar sight. Journeying on, they came to a locality which was
entirely occupied by somber rocks piled in mountain-like masses by
convulsions of the sub-strata. In the distance a lurid flame shot up
high in the heavens, as if the forces which had wrought that
devastation, instead of dying out, had shifted in position and
increased in intensity. Awe-stricken, Montcalm paused. Gladly would
he have returned to the world from which he had fled; but, as he
attempted to escape from his companion, his hand was tightly held,
and he was unable to withdraw it. At the same moment the strange
being underwent a transformation. His golden wings lost their
brilliancy, from the top of his head sprang great horns, his face
changed from benignity to diabolical ugliness and was dark and stern
as the fire-blackened rocks around him. Agonized beyond measure,
Montcalm gazed on him who destroys men's souls, and he remembered
that he had voluntarily placed himself in his power. While he was
shrinking from his repulsive master and fearfully awaiting the awful
flame which had now neared him, he heard, repeated, a long shrill
blast, the annunciation that "there should be time no longer."
He opened his eyes as the notes of one of the major's chanticleers
was dying away. It was some minutes before he comprehended the
unreality of his dream, and even after it was apparent to him, he
frequently wondered if it were really a delusion. Day had not yet
arrived. The light which came through the evergreens in front of his
window was furnished chiefly by the moon, which had more than an hour
ere its supersedure by the sun.
The plaster on the walls had cracked, leaving many seams which an
unemployed imagination might construe to represent definite shapes.
Montcalm's gaze followed one of these lines as, making a number of
curves, it formed a grotesque resemblance to a man's head. Uneasily
he turned toward the opposite wall, fancying that the picture was
shaped like the exaggerated countenance of Green as it had appeared
in his dream.
No sooner had he sought relief by changing his posture than his eyes
fell on another set of seams which united in the shape of a broad-ax.
He sprang from bed resolved that he would not longer stay where the
most commonplace things united to make his sojourn hideous.
Weakened by the horrors of the night, he walked slowly from the
house. The cattle were lying down in the barnyard. With the exception
of himself and Mrs. Grippin's ducks neither animals nor men were
astir about the place. Wearily he opened a barn door and climbing a
stationary ladder, flung himself on the haymow. Sleep was for him
impossible, but he might be able to rest. He did, indeed, find a
partial refuge from his harrowing thoughts. But, as the day dawned,
he was beset by a swarm of flies, which would give him no peace. When
he had covered his face with his hat, they lighted on his hands, and
when he had plunged his bands into the hay, they crowded under the
hat and still tormented him. He believed that henceforth for him
there was no quiet; that all nature had conspired to make him
miserable. He heard the me chatting in the stable and about the
barnyard. Not wishing to be discovered in the loft, he climbed down
and was passing out, when he met Archer, whose inexpressive face
reminded him of the shot which had stopped his flight in the swamp.
Breakfast was to him a severe trial. By dint of great exertion he
managed to invent a few gay remarks and to deliver them in a
sprightly manner; but the effort was so severe that it could not be
prolonged, and he relapsed again into silence.
It was a fine Sabbath morning, and after his few chores were done, he
sauntered back of the house, where he was joined by Ratke.
"The murder, has drawn my attention from my own affairs," said the
major. "I am again financially embarrassed. Did I tell you about it,
Trace?"
"No, you did not," answered Montcalm.
"I do not want to profane the Sabbath, but this is not a business
matter," said Ratke, feeling in spite of his explanation that he was
doing what he pretended to avoid, "that is, it is not a transaction
in business to-day. Durgenson has written me that he must have $4,000
the 23d of this month. I have nothing for him unless I sell the
Barton hundred and sixty. What would you do?"
"Do not pay him one cent," replied Montcalm, with an energy which he
had not exhibited for days. "He wants to get your entire property.
Let him have this farm, but keep----
"What!" exclaimed the major, "let the place go without an attempt to
save it? Do you know how I have become attached to my home? To save
it, I will sacrifice, if need be, all my possessions."
"That is what you will do," rejoined Montcalm, "and it will avail you
nothing. If you do not pay your indebtedness on the day it is due,
the farm belongs to Durgenson. Pay all you owe him, if you pay
anything. He does not want it paid. He is longing to get every dollar
you have. He would be disappointed to hear that you were prepared to
discharge the debt. The shark in whose clutches you have fallen will
show you no mercy until the shark of the sea returns a man unharmed
to the deck of the vessel from which he has fallen."
"You have a new opinion of Durgenson," said the major. "You were the
first one to advise me to take the step which I did."
"God forgive me, I did!" exclaimed Montcalm bitterly. "But all is not
ruined now. You have a hundred and sixty acres of good land. That
will keep you well, and you need not do a stroke of work. Suppose you
let that go and are penniless, what will you do? You ought not to be
obliged to labor at your age. I would keep it by all means."
Montcalm purposely strolled near a group of the hired men, and Ratke,
unable to impart confidences, returned to the house. Had the gloomy
young man been questioned by one who had authority to demand an
answer, he could not have explained why he went down the road toward
the church and plunged into the wood at the left.
It was with dread that he approached the pond. Its edge had retreated
farther from its usual border than it was on the night when he had
last visited it. Some turtles which were on a log fell with splashes
into the water. A snake swam a rod or two from shore and dived for
safety. Montcalm's hair arose as he saw a leech on the muddy bottom
worming its way to shore. Sick with aversion, he turned away,
believing that the pond and its vicinity was fit only for the
habitation of devils. He put his hand inside the hollow tree and drew
out the articles which he had there hidden. They were as he had left
them, the plunder, the auger, the mask and the rough clothes with
their blood-stains. He was not actuated by a love of his ill-acquired
money, and he had little curiosity. Indeed, he did not open the
pocket-book, and he barely glanced at the clothes.
Restoring to the tree what he had removed, he walked toward the
swamp. In the gradual descent he found a spring, and stooping, he
took a cool draught and from it bathed his face and head. After being
thus invigorated, he resumed his walk in better spirits. From the
side of the declivity bubbled other springs, the water of which met
in a rivulet, which joined the creek in the tamaracks.
Montcalm sat down near a fallen tree-top which partly obstructed the
brook. The limbs reached nearly across the channel; so that the
water, sweeping by at one side, made its escape through a narrow
passage. The current below was rapid. Above it moved slowly, halting
at the tree-top where a partial dam of leaves, sticks and scum was
collected. Long strings of green slime swayed to and fro, attached to
the bottom and the sides of the channel. Whirled above by the eddies,
small objects were passed into a peaceful bay formed by the tree-top
and the bank or swept into the turbulent rapids beyond. Montcalm
became impressed with the idea that the placid bay held safety and
that in the rapid current beyond was destruction. Every piece of bark
which was brought by the rivulet he watched to ascertain its fate. He
was glad when one reached the smooth haven, disappointed when another
swept around the obstruction and was hurried to its doom. By degrees
he came to regard each floating substance as a representation of
himself, his deeds, his chance of preservation.
An ant crawled down an overhanging bush which almost touched the
surface of the brook. Ordinarily it would have maintained its
balance, but as it whirled to ascend, struck by a puff of wind, it
fell. Montcalm viewed its struggles with interest, for it reminded
him of the manner in which he, tossed hither and thither, had been
borne down the stream of fatality. He reflected that he could no more
have resisted the temptations and circumstances by which he was
surrounded than the poor insect could rise above the whirlpools and
fly to land. And yet, the ant was in a measure responsible for its
misfortune. It had realized the danger and hovered over it, believing
that its vigilance was sufficient protection. He had known where
flowed the river into which he had leaped, but he had thought that he
could leave it before arriving at the fatal rapids, from which there
could be no extrication. Not far from him was the cataract which
descended to the abyss of eternal woe, its sheet of falling water,
its projecting rocks, its appalling roar. If the ant passed into the
still haven, he would believe that he might likewise escape. If,
swept on by the angry waves, it perished, he would have no prospect
of avoiding a similar fate. Anxiously he awaited the result on which
in a spirit of fatalism he had based his hopes.
The ant, struggling, floated toward the rapids. The movement,
however, was not decisive, and it swam nearer to the shelter of the
right bank, where it lay hesitating between the shore and the stream.
It again circled, and entering the current, was carried toward the
point of a limb which separated the still and the agitated waters.
Poised an instant in mock deliberation, it was hurled into the
rushing waves. Montcalm was seized with a resolve to rescue the
creature. He ran to a stick, which he clutched. When he turned to the
brook, the ant had disappeared. He bent over the spot where he had
last seen it, he rushed down the stream, he splashed the water with
the stick. Not a trace could he find of the insect whose fate he had
identified with his own.
"Why, what are you trying to do?" said a voice, at the sound of which
he started in alarm, "dragging the river for a dead body?"
The speaker was Durgenson, who was spending Sunday with Sparks and
who had approached, unobserved, during Montcalm's preoccupation. He
wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and a suit of plaid clothes, with a
sack coat which fitted tightly his full muscular figure. "You don't
look well," he continued, without waiting for a reply to his
question. "Ratke isn't in the habit of working his hands hard enough
to hurt them."
"No," said Montcalm, "I am not overworked. I have been awake a great
deal nights. I think I will leave the locality soon. I want sleep and
a change of scene."
"That is what you ought to have," remarked Durgenson. "You have
worked harder than people have any idea of. Now, I'll bet something
handsome you can tell who hit old Green."
"Are you any better than I, you swindler?" retorted Montcalm. "You
have tricked honest men of small means, from whom I would have been
ashamed to take a dollar. I once owned a conscience, but you never
had one."
"Oh, there's no use getting in a pet, Trace," responded Durgenson
good-naturedly. "I didn't mean anything. I've come to bring you some
money. That ought to put you in better humor. Suppose we settle
to-day."
"I have long been wanting a settlement," replied Montcalm. "How much
did the last horses bring?"
"The last I sold were the ones they had such a hunt for," said
Durgenson. "They brought four hundred dollars."
"Four hundred dollars!" ejaculated Montcalm in surprise. "Madge T.
alone ought to have sold for more than that!"
"I can't help that," returned Durgenson. "You can't take advantage of
the market where you are dealing in such property. You have to
dispose of it the best way you can. Here is two hundred dollars. That
makes us square, don't it?"
"No," responded Montcalm, "you owe me a great deal more. I have done
the planning for your enterprises and you have reaped the benefits.
When I told you of the oat scheme, you agreed to pay me well for the
time I spent. I worked at it until I had it perfected. You made
thousands of dollars from it. Where is my share? I laid the plan of
the Guerrero Mining Company and studied weeks to perfect it.
Excepting the one share which I sold, what has it availed me?"
"Well, now, that hasn't panned out much yet," said Durgenson. "I
expect it will pay."
"There is one matter I would like to speak about," said Montcalm. "I
have made but few requests to you, and you ought to be willing to
grant this one. You have Major Ratke's farm in your possession. You
are now trying to get the proceeds from the Barton hundred and sixty.
Take the old farm if you will, but let him have that fragment of his
estate. I ask it as a personal favor, Durgenson."
"Now, that is asking a great deal," remarked Durgenson. "You want me
to let him go after he is once in my hand. You helped to catch him
yourself."
"So I did," replied Montcalm, "and I have a right to insist that part
of my wishes concerning him shall be carried out. I have hated myself
ever since I entrapped him."
"I'll see about it," said Durgenson. "Say how much you want a day for
your work."
"Fifteen dollars," answered Montcalm, "and I put in, call it ten
days."
"All right," said Durgenson, "That is satisfactory, I'll make it two
hundred, and then you'll be satisfied. The oat business, though, was
profitable. It was well got up, too. The name was worth a fortune. If
it had been Chinese or Russian, the farmers might not have bit, but
Nijni Novgorod, they couldn't stand that. I suppose you've no
objection to getting a thousand more?"
"What do you want done?" inquired Montcalm.
"You see," answered Durgenson, "there's a fellow I don't like the
looks of, not that he's homelier than other folks, but he don't look
good to me. Now, I want that fellow got out of my sight, out of
everybody's sight."
"What do you take me for, you scoundrel?" exclaimed Montcalm, "a
cutthroat? I am bad enough, but I will not kill a man for hire."
"Why, you are getting conscientious," sneered Durgenson. "You never
used to have any such compunctions. There's a man in the graveyard
that would have been walking around if it hadn't been for you. When
did you get virtuous?"
"Are you the one to twit me of vice?" angrily cried Montcalm. "You
have encouraged me in it and fattened on my misdeeds. When I first
knew you, I was an innocent boy, determined to make an honest man, I
had no more thought of becoming what I am than you have of giving
your property to a benevolent institution.
"My father died, my mother was in poor circumstances, and I was
obliged to work in order that I might finish my college course. You
hired me at first to bring cattle to the east. You made great
professions of honesty and of concern for the welfare of others. In
this way you won my confidence. Then you convinced me it was right to
run a saloon, that if we did not some one else would and the liquor
would still be drunk. From selling whisky, you lured me to swindling.
You told me that every man must look out for himself, that honesty is
the cant of hypocrites or the practice of fools, that the only wisdom
is in looking to self-gain regardless of right or wrong. When you had
schooled me well in swindling, you drilled me in horse-stealing,
awarding me the danger and you the profit. I tell you, Durgenson, I
am going straight to hell and it is you who have sent me. I said I
was going to hell. I have been there. I am there now, and I can
hardly restrain myself from pulling you in after me."
Durgenson started back, appalled by the terrific aspect of Montcalm,
whose hand was raised aloft, whose face was deadly pale, and whose
eyes were blazing almost with the fire of lunacy.
"Hold on!" expostulated the cattle-buyer. "Don't talk so loud!
Somebody will hear you."
"What do I care if they do?" returned Montcalm, raising his voice
still higher. "You have ruined me and are laughing at me for it. Why
should I not ruin you? If killing myself would atone for half the
evil I have done, I would blow out my brains! If shooting you would
restore that old man his farm, you would not live an instant!"
"For God's sake. Trace," Durgenson said, "don't act so! You are
crazy. What do you mean by saying you have been to hell?"
"Do you intimate that I lie?" asked Montcalm fiercely.
"No, no," said Durgenson, his astonishment and alarm increasing. "Of
course you know where you've been."
"Yes," said Montcalm, with perfect composure, "I was in hell all
night. I shall soon go back to stay forever. I am a devil and I know
well the final home of devils. You had better leave me. There is no
telling what violence you may tempt me to do."
"That is about what I was thinking," replied Durgenson, jumping
across the brook. "You don't know who I can get to do the job I spoke
of, do you?"
"The fellow who keeps so many dogs," said Montcalm.
Durgenson walked in the direction of Sparks', wondering at the sudden
change in his hitherto devoted helper. Montcalm, exhausted in his
weakened state by the violence of his passion, sat down at the foot
of a tree. When he had been seated a few minutes, he separated a
letter from a bundle of papers in his pocket. It was written in a
quaint, round hand, which would have been taken at once for that of
an old lady.
Cortland, N. V., June 30th, 187--.
My Son Traceworth:
It has been a long time since I have heard from you. The last
letter you sent was when you gave me that fifty dollars. Now
that I am alone, I don't know what I should do if Cod hadn't
given me a good boy. You must have changed some since I saw
you. That was five years ago. You used to write once a week
regularly. Now you don't let me hear from you oftener than
once a month. It seems so different now from what it did
when we were rich. But it was all for the best. I have
provisions enough. All I need now is to
hear from my boy. I pray for you every day, Traceworth,
two or three times a day. You know there was a spell when
you didn't keep good company. Remember what I have told you
and keep away from bad men.
Mother.
Montcalm put the letter with the papers into his pocket. Gloomily he
left the woods to mingle in society which he hated, to listen to
words the import of which he did not comprehend, to profess gayety
while body and mind were being eaten away by the canker of remorse.