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BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN, AUTHOE OF " THE IFAVENWORTH CASE," " A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE," " HAND AND RING," ETC., ETC. 7 * \\ «-«fir/ tRovontox ROSE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 1889. v^ Entered according to the Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine, by the Rose Publishing Company, at the department of Agriculture, CONTENTS The Alarm CHAPTER I. • • It « faoe 5 A Fearful Question CHAPTER II. • • • • « . 9 Ada CHAPTER ni. . 13 The Potlards CHAPTER IV. . 18 Doubts and Queries CHAPTER V. • • • • ' • . 28 Mrs. Pollard CHAPTER VI. • • • • • . 39 Adtancbs CHAPTER Vir. • • • • 1 CHAPTER Vlll. . 45 A Flower from the Pollard Conservatory . 52 CHAPTER IX. An Unexpected Discovery . . . , 69 Rhoda Colwell CHAPTii;R X. s • • • • • . 66 CH\:TERXr. Under the Mill Floor . 75 DwiQHT Pollard CHAPTER XII. " • • • • . 82 Guy Pollard CHAPTER XIII. • • • • • • ' . 90 ^. ll IV CONTENTS. OORRBSPONDENCE CHAPTER XIV. • • • • PAQB . 103 A Gossip ♦ CHAPTER XV. t t • • CHAPTER XVL . 109 The Green Envelope • • • « . 118 David Barrows CHAPTER XVn. • t • • . 124 A Last Request CHAPTER XVIIL • • • • .127 A Fatal Delay CHAPTER XIX. • • • # . 135 The Olt) Mill CHAPTER XX. • • • • . 140 The Vat . CHAPTER XXL • • • • . 14C The Cypher CHAPTER yxn. • • • * CHAP IE ri XX in. . 154 Too Late , i ' -•• * ' » . 161 Confronted CHAPTER XX IV. . 168 The Final Blow CHAPTER, XXV. • • • • . 173 A Feline Touch CHAPTER XXVL • • • » ■ . 177 Reparation CHAPTER XXVIL • • • • . 187 Two OR One CHAPTER XXVIII. . 189 rii THE MILL MYSTEllY. CHAPTER L THE ALARM. Life, struck sharp on death, Makes awful lightning'. --Mks. Browning. I HAD just come in from the street. I had a letter in my hand. It was for my fellow-lodger, a young girl who taught iu the High School, and whom I had persuaded to share my room because of her pretty face and quiet ways. She was not at home, and I flung the letter down on the table, where it fell, address downwards. I thought no more of it; my mind was too full, my heart too heavy with my own trouble. Going to the window, I leaned my cheek against the pane. Oh, the deep sadness of a solitary woman's life ! The sense of helplessness that comes upon her when every effort made, every possibility sounded, she realizes that the world has no place for i her, and that she must either stoop to ask the assistance of friends or starve 1 I have no words for the misery I felt, for I am a proud woman, and But no lifting of the curtain that shrouds ray past. It has fallen for ever, and for you and me and the world I am simply Constance Sterling, a young woman of twenty- [tive, without home, relatives, or. means of support, having in her I pocket seventy-five cents of change, and in her breast a heart like lead, so utterly had every hope vanished in the day's rush of disappointments. i 6 The Mill Mystery, How long I stood with my face to the window T cannot say. With eyes dully fixed upon the blank walls of the cottages op- posite, I stood oblivious to all about me till tho fading sunlight — or was it some stir in the room behind me 1 — recalled mo to my- self, and I turned to find my pretty room-mate staring at me with a troubled look that for a moment made me forget my own sor- rows and anxieties. " What is it?" I asked, going towards her with an irresistible impulse of sympathy. " I don't know," she murmured ; " a sudden pain here," laying her hand on her heart. I advanced still nearer, but her face, which had been quite pale, turned suddenly rosy ; and, with a more natural expression, she took me by the hand, and said : " But you look more than ill, you look unhappy. Would you mind telling me what worries you ? " The gentle tone, the earnest glance of modest yet sincere in- terest, went to ray heart. Clutching her hand convulsively, 1 burst into tears. " It is nothing," said I ; " only my last resource has failed, and I don't know where to get a meal for to-morrow. Not that this is any thing in itself," I hastened to add, my natural pride reas- serting itself ; " but the future ! the future ! — what am I to do with my future ? " She did not answer at first. A gleam — I can scarcely call it a glow — passed over her face, and her eyes took a far-away look that made them very sweet. Then a little flush stole into her cheek, and, pressing my hand, she said : " Will you trust it to me for a while ? " I must have looked my astonishment, for she hastened to add : " Your future I have little concern for. With such capabili- ties as yours, you must find work. Why, look at your face ! " and she drew me playfully before the glass. " See the forehead, the mouth, and tell me you read failure there ! But your present is what is doubtful, and that I can certainly take care of." « But " I protested, with a sensation of warmth in my cheeks. The loveliest smile stopped me before 'I could utter a word more. "As you would take care of mine," she completed, "if our The Alarm. itter a word positions were reversed." Then, without waiting for a further demur on my part, she ki.ssecl me, ttn8 ; I could not hell) it. She was such a frail little thing, so white and so ethereal, and her poor five hundred had ))een earned by such weary, weary work. " But that is nothing, nothing," I said. " You have a future, to provide for, too, and you are not as strong as I am, if you have bc(ai more successful." yhe laughed, then blushed, then laughed again, and impulsively cried : "It is, however, more than I need to buy a wedding-dress with, don't you think ? " And as 1 looked up surprised, she (lashed out: " Oh, it's my secret ; but J am going to be married in a month, and — and then I won't need to count my pennies any more ; and, so I say, if you will stay here with me w'thout a care until that day comes, you ill make me very happy, and put me at the same time under a real obligation ; for I shall want a great many things done, as you can readily conceive." What did I say — what could I say, with her sweet blue eyes looking BO truthfully into mine, but — " Oh, you darling girl I " while my heart filled with tears, which only escaped from over- flowing my eyes, because I would not lessen her innocent joy by a hint of ray own secret trouble. " And who is the happy man 1 " I asked, at last, rising to pull down the curtain across a too inquisitive ray of afternoon sun- shine. " Ah, the noblest, best man in town ! " she breathed, with a burst of gentle pride. " Mr. B " She went no further, or if she did, I did not hear her, for just then a hubbub arose in the street, and lifting the window, I looked out. " What is it ?" she cried, coming hastily towards me. " I don't know," I returned. " The people are all rushing in one direction, but I cannot see what attracts them." " Come away, then ! " she murmured ; and I saw her hand go to her heart, in the way it did when she first entered the room a half-hour before. But just then a sudden voice exclaimed below : 8 The Mill Mijdcry. " Tlie clergyman ! It is the clergyman ! " And giving a smothered shriek, she grasped me by the arm, crying : " What do they say 1 • The clergyman 1 ' Do they say the clergyman ' " ? " Yes," 1 answered, turning upon her with alaiin. Hut she was already at the door. *' Can it bo 1 " I askcid myself, as I hurriedly followwl, " that it is Mr. Barrows she is going to marry 1 " For in the small town of S Mr. Barrows was the only man who could properly be meaut by " The clergyman ; " for though Mr. Kingston, of the Baptist Thurch, was a worthy man in his way, and the Congregational minister had an influence with his Hock that wjis not to be despised, Mr. Barrows, alone of all his fraternity, had so won upon the affections and confidence of the people as to merit the appellation of '• The clergyman." '* If 1 am right," thought I, " (Jod grant that no harm has come to him ! " and I djuahed down the stairs just in time to see the frail form of my room-mate flying out of the front door. I overtook her at last ; but where 1 Far out of town on that dark and dismal road, where the gaunt chimneys of the deserted mill rise from a growth of pine-trees. But I knew before I reached her what she would find ; knew that her short dream of love was over, and that stretched amongst the weeds which choked the entrance to the old mill lay the dead form of the reverend young minister, who, by his precept and example, had won not only the heart of this young maiden, but that of the whole community in which he lived and labored. y petty physical causes, that I have sometimes wondered where lis great soul got its strength to carry him through the exigencies )f his somewhat trying calling. But whatever his weaknesses — ind they were very few, — he was conscientious in the extreme, land suffered agony where other men would be affected but slightly. JYou can imagine his joy, then, over this unexpected end to his long pain ; and remembering that it is only a month previous to the day set apart by us for our marriage, ask yourself whether he would be likely to seek any means of death, let alone such a horrible and lonesome one as that which has robbed us of him [to-day?" " No ! " I burst out, for she waited for my reply. " A thous- [and times, no, no, no ! " " He has not been so well lately, and I have not seen as much i of him as usual ; but that is because he had some literary work he wished to finish before the wedding-day. Ah, it will never be finished now ! and our wedding-day is to-day ! and the bride is almost ready. But ! " she suddenly exclaimed, *' I must not go yet— not till you have said again that he was no suicide. Tell me," she vehemently continued — " tell me from your soul that you believe he is not answerable for his death I " " I do ! " I rejoined, alarmed and touched at once by the fire in her cheek and eye. " And that," she went on, " you will hold to this opinion in the face of all opposition ! That, whatever attack men may make upon his memory, you will uphold his honor and declare his innocence ! Say you will be my deputy in this, and I will love '"ii The Mill Mystery, you even in my cold grave, and bless you as perhaps only thos who see the face of the Father can bless I " " A da ! " I murmured, " Ada ! " " You will do this, will you not ? " she persisted. " I can die knowing I can trust you as I would myself." I took her cold hand in mine and promised, though I felt how feeble would be any power of mine to stop the tide of public | opinion if once it set in any definite direction. "He had no enemies," she whispered, "but I would sooner be- lieve he had, than that he sought this fearful spot of his own accord." And seemingly satisfied to have dropped this seed in my breast, she tremblingly arose, and going for her writing-desk, brought it back and laid it on the lounge by her side. " Go for Mrs. Gan- non," she said. Mrs. Gannon w"s our neighbor in the next room, a widow who earned her livelihood by nursing the sick ; and I was only too glad to have her with me at this time, for my poor Ada's face was growing more and more deathly, and I began to fear she had but prophesied the truth when she said this was her weddinjj; day. I was detained only a few minutes, but when I came back with Mrs. Gannon I found my room mate writing. " Come ! " said she, in a voice so calm, my companion started and hastily looked at her face for confirmation of the fears I had expressed ; '* I want you both to witness my signature." With one last eflFort of strength she wrote her name, and then handed the pen to Mrs. Gannon, who took it without a word. " It is my will," she faintly smiled, watching me as I added my name at the bottom. " We have had to do without lawyers, but I don't think there will be any one to dispute my last wishes." And taking the paper in her hand, she glanced hastily at it, then folded it, and handed it back to me with a look that made my heart leap with uncontrollable emotion. " I can trust yon," she said, and fell softly back upon the pillow. " You had better go for Dr. Farnham," whispered Mrs. Gannon in my ear, with an ominous shake of her head. And though I felt it to be futile, I hastened to comply. But Dr. Farnham was out, attending to a very urgent case, I was told ; and so, to my growing astonishment and dismay, were Dr. Spaulding and Dr. Perry. I was therefore obliged to come Ada. n d. " I can die jk alone, which I did with what speed I could ; for I begrudged fery moment spent away from the side of one I had so lately irned to love, and must so soon lose. Mrs. Gannon met me at the door, and with a strange look, drew [e in and pointed towards the bed. There lay Ada, white as the riven snow, with closed eyes, whose faintly trembling lids alone ^tokened that she w-as not yet lied to the land of (^[uiet shadows. It her side was a picture of the man she loved, and on her breast ly a bunch of withered roses I could easily believe had been his 5t gift. It was a vision of perfect peace, and I could not but )ntrasu it with what my imagination told me must have been le frenzied anguish of that other death. My approach, though light, disturbed her. Opening her eyes, le gave me one long, long look. Then, as if satisfied, she softly losed them again, breathed a little sigh, and in another moment fas no more. 4 VIrs. Gannon ■ >i smay, were ed to come ;i CHAPTER IV. THE POLLARDS. I'here'H Homething in his houI, O'er which his melancholy sits on brooil. —Ham LET. FEARFUL as the experiences of this day had been, they wcie not yet at an end, for nio. Indeed, the most reraarkable were to come. As I sat in this room of death — it was not far from midnight — I suddenly heard voices at the door, and Mrs. Gannon came in with Dr. Farnham, • "It is very extraordinary," I heard him mutter, as he crossed the threshold. " One dying and another dead, and both struck down b\ the same cause." I could not imagine what he meant, so I looked at him with some amazement. But he did not seem to heed me. Going straight to the bed, he gazed silently at Ada's pure features, with what I could not but consider a troubled glance. Then turning quickly to Mrs. Gannon, he said, in his somewhat brusque way : " All is over here ; you can therefore leave. I have a patient who demands your instant care." " But " she began. " I have come on purpose for you," he put in, authoritatively. ** It is an urgent case ; do not keep me waiting." " But, sir," she persisted, "it is impossible. I am expected early in the morning at Scott's Corners, and was just going to bed when you came in, in order to get a little sleep before taking the train." " Dr. Perry's case 1" "Yes." 18 X The PoUarthi. 19 it him with He frowned, and I am not sure but what he uttered a wild oath. (At all events, he seemed very much put out. I immediately drew near. " Oh, sir," I cried, " if you would have contidenco in nic. I am [not unused to the work, and " His stare frightened me, it was so searching and so keen. " Who are you ? " he asked. 1 told him, and Mrs. Gannon put in a word for me. I was re- [liablo, she said, and if too much experience was not wanted, would do better than such and such a one — naming certain persons, pro- [biibly neighbors. But the doctor's steady look told me he reUed more on his own [judgment than on anything she or I could say. " Can you hold your tongue," he asked. I started. Who would not have done so ? ** I see that you can," he muttered, and glanced down at my dress. " When can you be ready ?" he inquired. "You may bo wanted for days, and it may be only for hours." " Will ten minutes be soon enough 1 " 1 asked. A smile difficult to fathom crossed his firm lip. " I will give you fifteen," he said, and turned towards the door. But on the threshold he paused and looked back. " You have not asked who or what your patient is," he grimly suggested. " No," I answered shortly. " Well," said he, " it is Mrs. Pollard, and she is going to die." Mrs. Pollard ! Mrs. Gannon and I involuntarily turned and looked at each other. " Mrs. Pollard ! " repeated the good nurse, wonderingly. "I did not know she was sick." "She wasn't this noon. It is a sudden attack. Apoplexy we call it. She fell at the news of Mr. Barrows' death." And with this parting shot, he went out and closed the door behind him. I sank, just a little bit weakened, on the lounge, then rose with renewed vigor. "The work has fallen into the right hands," thought I. "Ada would wish me to leave her for such a task as this." And yet I was troubled. For though this sudden prostration of Mrs. Pollard, on the hearing of her young pastor's sorrowful death, seemed to betoken a nature of more than ordinary sensibility, I had 20 The Mill Must cry. f f I r I !l I h always heard that she was a haul woman, with an eye of steel and a heart that could only bo reached throu<;h selfish interests. But then she was the magnate of the place, the beginning and end of the aristocracy of S ; and when is not such a one open to calumny 1 I was determined to reserve my judgment. In the fifteen minutes alloted me, I was ready. Suitable ar rangements had already been made for the removal of my poor Ada's body to the house that held her lover. For the pathos of the situation had touched all hearts, and her wish to be laid in the same grave with him met with no opposition. I could therefore leave with a clear conscience ; Mrs. Gannon promising to do all that was necessary, even if she was obliged to take a later train than she had expected to. Dr. Farnham was in the parlor waiting for me. and uttered a grunt of satisfaction as he saw me enter, fully equipped. •' Come ; this is business," he said and led the way at once to his carriage. We dill not speak for the first block. He seemed meditating, and I was summoning up courage for the ordeal before me. For, now that we were started, I began to feel a certain inward tremb- ling not to be entirely accounted for by the fact that I was going into a strange house to nurse a woman of whom report did not speak any too kindly. Nor did the lateness of the hour, and the desolate aspect of the unlighted streets, tend greatly to reassure me. Indeed, something of the weird and uncanny seemed to min- gle with the whole situation, and I found myself dreading our approach to the house, which from its old-time air and secluded position had always worn for me an aspect of gloomy reserve, that made it even in the day-light, a spot of somewhat fearful interest. Dr. Farnham, who may have suspected my agitation, though he gave no token of doing so, suddenly spoke up. *' It is only right to tell you," he said, " that I should never have accepted the service of an inexperienced girl like you, if any thing was necessary but watchfulness and discretion. Mrs. Pollard lies unconscious, and all you will have to do is to sit at her side and wait for the first dawning of returning reason. It may come at any moment, and it may never come at all. She is a very sick woman." " I understand," I murmured, plucking up heart at what did not seem so very diflficult a taslf, The Pollards. 21 'steol and sts. But id end of open to litable ar ■ my poor pathos of aid in the therefore to do all iter train uttered a b once to iditating, le. For, •d tremb- as going did not and the reassure 1 to min- ting our secluded rve, that interest. , though Id never u, if any 1. Mrs. to sit at ison. It She is ^hat did ** Her sons will be within call ; so will I. By daybreak we hope to have her daughter frona Newport with her. You do not know Mrs. Harrington 1 " I shook my h«ad. Who was I, that I should know these grand folks ? And yet But I promised I would say noth- ing about days now ho completely obliterated. " She will not be much of an assistance," he nuittered, " But it is right she should come — quite right." I remembered that I had heard that Mrs. Pollard's daughter was a beauty, and that she had made a fine match ; which, said of Mrs. Pollard's daughter, must have meant a great deal. I, however, said nothing, only listened in a vague hope of hearing more, for my curiosity was aroused in a strange way about these people, and nothing which the good doctor could have said about them would have come amiss at this time. But our drive had been too rapid, and we were too near the house for him to think of any thing Ijut turning into the gateway with the necessary caution. For thv. night was unusually dark, and it was difticult to tell just where the gate-posts were. We, however, entered without accident, and in another moment a gleam of light greeted us from the distant porch. " They are expecting us," he said, and touched up his horse. We flew up the gravelled road, and before I could still the sudden neart-beat that attacked me at sight of the grim row of cedars which surrounded the house, we wore hurrying up between the two huge lions rampant that flanked the steps, to where a servant stood holding open the door. A sense of gloom and chill at once overwhelmed me. From the interior, which 1 faintly saw stretching before me, there breathed even in that first moment of hurried entrance a cold and haughty grandeur that, however rich and awe-inspiring, vvas any thing but attractive to a nature like mine. Drawing back, I let Dr. Farnham take the lead, which he did in his own brusque way. And then I saw what the dim light had not revealed before, a young man's form standing by the newel-post of the wide staircase that rose at our left. He at once came forward, and as the light from the lamp above us fell fully upon him, I saw his face, and started. Why 1 I could not tell. Not because his handsome features struck me pleasantly, for they did not. There was something in > '11 9t Il ,lj I 'it Ml 22 The Mill Mystery. tlieir expression which 1 did not like, and yet as I looked .it them a sudden sensation swept over me that made my apprehen sions of a momejit Imck seem like child's play, and I l)(!camo con scions that if a sudden call of life or death were behind mo urgiiiL; me on the instant to (juit the house, I could not do it while tluit face was before uio to be fathomed, and, if possible, under- stood. " Ah, I see you have brought the nurse." were the words with which he greeted Dr. Farnham. And the voice was as thrilliiiL; in its tone as the face was in its expression. " But," ho suddenly exclaimed, as his eyes met mine, " this is not Mrs. Gannon." And he hurriedly drew the doctor down the hall. " Why have you brought this young girl 1 " he asked, in tones which, however lowered, I could easily distinguish. Didn't you know there were reasons why we especially wanted an elderly person ? " '* No," I heard the doctor say, and then, his back being towards me, I lost the rest of his speech till the words, " She is no gossip," came to salute me and make me ask myself if there was a secret skeleton in this house, that they feared so much the eyes of a stranger. " But," the young man went hurriedly on, " she is not at all the kind of person to have over my mother. How could we ' and there his voice fell so as to I .come unintelligible. But the doctor's sudden exclamation helped me out. " What ! " he wonderingly cried, " do you intend to sit w\) too?" " I or my brother," was the calm response, " Would you expect us to leave her alone with a stranger 1 " The doctor made no answer, and the young man, taking a step sidewise, threw me a glance full of anxiety and trouble. " I don't like it," he murmured ; " but there must be a woman \ of some kind in the room, and a stranger " He did not finish his words, but it seemed as if he were going ' to say : " And a stranger may, after all, be preferable to a neigh- bor." But I cannot be sure of this, for he was not a man so easy | to sound. But what I do know is that he stepped forward to me with an easy grace, and giving me a welcome as courteous as if I had been the one of all others he desired to see, led me up the stairs to a room which he announced to be mine, saying, as he left me at the door : "iSr Tlie Pollanh. 23 a woman " Como out in five minutos, and my brother will introduce you l«) your duti«3." So far 1 had seen no "woman in tho house, and I was boginning to wonder if Mrs. Pollard ha " He was drowned." " Drowned ] " « Yes." " When 1 " " Yesterday." "Where?" This time the answer was not forthcoming. Was it because lit- knew the place too well *? I dared not lift my eyes to see. ** Was it in the mill stream 1 " she asked. This time he uttered a hollow " No." Then, as if he felt him- self too weak to submit to this cross-questioning, he pushed back his chair, and, hurriedly rising, said : " It is a very shocking affair, Agnes. Mr. Barrows was found in a vat in the cellar of the old mill. Ho drowned himself. No one knows his motive." " Drowned himself? " Did she speak or I ? I saw her lips move and I heard the words uttered as I thought in her voice ; but it was to me he directed his look, and to me he seemed to reply : " Yes ; how else account for the circumstances ? Is he a mau to have enemies 1 — or is that a place a man would be likely to seek for pleasure ? " " But " the trembling little woman at my side began. " I say it is a suicide," he broke in, imperiously, giving his sis- ter one look, and then settl'ng his eyes back again upon my face. " No other explanation tits the case, and no other explanation will Doubts" and Queries. 36 evor be given. Why he should have committed such a deed," ho went on in a changod voice, and after a momentary pause, "it would b(5 impossible for nio, and perhaps for any other man, to 3)iy ; but that he did do it is evident, and that is all I mean to asaHit. The rest I leave for wiser heads than mine." And turn- ing from me with an indescribable look that to my reason, if not to my head, seemed to belie his words, he offered his arm to his howildered sister and quietly led her towards the door. The breath of relief I gave as the portiere closed behind them was, however premature, for scarcely had he seen her on her way up Htairs when he came back, and taking his stand directly before me aaid : " You and I do not agree on this question ; I see it in your eyos. Now what explanation do you give of Mr. Barrows' death 1 " The suddenness of the attack brought the blood to my cheeks, while the necessity of answering drove it as quickly away. He saw I was agitated, and a slight tremble — it could not be called a smile — disturbed the set contour of his lips. The sight of it gave me courage. I let my own curl as I replied : " You do mo too much honor to ask my opinion. But since you wish to know what I think, I consider it only justice to say that it would be easier for an unprejudiced mind to believe that Mr. Barrows had a secret enemy, or that his death was owing to some peculiar and perhaps unexplainable accident, than that ho should seek it himself, having, as he did, every reason for living." " He was very happy, then 1 " murmured my companion, look- ing for an instant away, as if he could not bear the intensity of my gaze. " He loved deeply a noble woman ; they were to have been married in a month ; does that look like happiness ] " I asked. The roving eye came back, fixed itself upon me, and turned dangerously dark and deep. " It looks like it," he emphasized, and a strange smile passed over his lips, the utter melancholy of which was all that was plain to me. '* And it was / " I persisted, determined not to yield an iota of my convictions to the persuasiveness of this man. " The woman wlio knew him best declared it to be so as she was dying ; and I am forced to trust in her judgment, whatever the opinion of others may be." ifi\ 30 TJie Mill Myatery. (( But happy men- >» he begpn. ^wm »'(•) '* Somotimes meet witli accidents," I completed. "And your credulity is suHicient to allow you to couaider Mr Barrows* death as the result of accident 1 " Lightly as the question was put, I felt that nothing but a d anxiety had prompterine88, and iii!i(l(' it diflicult, if not impossible, for me to move. " You have s|ti>k<^n of Miss Reynolds," he resumed ; " have told mo that she (U'chired upon her dying bed that the relations between Mr. liar- rows and herself were very happy. Were you with her then 1 \)'A you know her well 1 " •' She was my room-mate," I returned. It was a blow ; I saw it, though not a muscle of his face (|iiivered. He had not expected to hear that I was upon terms of intimacy with her. " I loved her," I went on, with a sense of cruel pleasure that mii.st have sprung from the invvard necessity I felt to struggle willi this strong nature. " The proof that she loved me lies in the tact that she; has made me heir to all her little savings. We w'vw friends," I added, seeing he was not yet under sufficient con- trol to speak. " I see," he now said, moving involuntarily between me and the door. " And by friends you mean confidantes, I presume 1 " •* I'erhaps," I answered, coolly, dropping my eyes. His voice took a deeper tone ; it was steel meeting steel, ho siiw. " And she told you Mr. Barrows was happy ] " '• riiat has been already discussed," said I. '* Miss Sterling," — I think I never heard such music in a human voice — " you think me inquisitive, presuming^ ungentle- manly, j)orsistent, perhaps. But I have a great wish to know the (rutli about this matter, if only to secure myself from form- ing false impressions and wrongfully influencing others by them. Boar with me, then, strangers though we are, and if you feel you can trust p^e " — here he forced me to look at him, — " let me hear, '•{)ray, what reasons, you have for declaring so emphatically that My. Barrows did not commit suicide 1 " '• My reasons, Mr. Pollard 1 Have I not already given them to you 1 Ts it necessary for me to repeat them? " "No," he earnestly rejoined, charming me, whether I would or not, by the subtle homage he infused into his look, " if you will assure me that you have no others — that the ones you have given turni the sole foundation for your conclusions, Will you ] " he :! I k, .4 '.: 38 The Mill Mystery. entreated ; and while his eyes demanded the truth, his lip took a curve which it would have been better for me not to have seen if I wished to preserve unmoved my position as grand inquisi- tor. I was compelled, or so it seemed to me, to answer without re- serve. I therefore returned a quiet affirmative, adding only in qualification of the avowal, "What other reasons were necessary ]" " None, none," was the quick reply, *' for you to believe as you do. A woman but proves her claim to our respect when she at- taches such significance to the master-passion as to make it tlie argument of a perfect happiness." 1 do not think he spoke in sarcasm, though to most minds it might appear so, I think he spoke in relief, a joyous relief, tliat was less acceptable to me at that moment than the sarcasm would h^ve been. I therefore did not blush, but rather grew pale, as wiili a bow I acknowledged his words, and took my first step towards the doorway. " I have wounded you," he murmured, softly, following me. " You do not know me well enough," I answered, turning witli a sense of victory in the midst of my partial defeat. *' It is a misfortune that can be remedied," he smiled. " Your brother waits for us," T suggested, and, lifting the j portiere out of his hand, I passed through, steady as a dart, but quaking, oh, how fearfully quaking within 1 for this interview had not only confirmed me in my belief that something dark aud unknown connected the life of this household with that wliicli had suddenly gone out in the vat at the old mill, but deei.eried rather than effaced the fatal charm which, contrary to every in- stinct of my nature, held me in a bondage that more than all things | else must make an investigation into this mystery a danger and i pain from which any woman might well recoil, even though slie j bore in her heart memories of a past like mine. CHAPTER VI. MRS. POLLARD. M My miud she has mated, and amazed my sight ; I think but dare not speak. —Macbeth. THAT day was a marked one in my life. It was not only the longest I have ever known, but it was by far the dreariest, and, if I may use the word in this connection, thrmost unearthly. Indeed, I cannot think of it to this day without a shudder ; its effect being much the same upon my memory as that of a vigil in some underground tomb, where each moment was emphasized with horror lest the dead lying before me might stir beneath their cerements and wake. The continual presence of one or both of the brothers at my side did not tend to alleviate the dread which the silence, the constant suspense, the cold gloom of the ever dimly-lighted chamber were calculated to arouse ; for the atmos- phere of unreality and gloom was upon them too, and, saving the quick, short sigh that escaped from their lips now and then, neither of them spoke nor relaxed for an instant from that strain of painful attention which had for its focus their mother's stony face. Mrs. Harrington, who, in her youthful freshness and dimpled beauty, might have relieved the universal sombreness of the scene, was not in the room all day ; but whether this was on account of her inability to confront sickness and trouble, or whether it was the result of the wishes of her brothers, I have never been able to decide ; probably the latter, for, though she was a woman of a frivolous mind, she had a due sense of the pro- prieties, and was never known to violate them except under the stress of another will more powerful than hor own. At last, as the day waned, and what light there was gradually vanished from the shadowy chamber, Guy made a movement of discouragement, and, rising from his place, approached his brother, 39 m >\ ! I i;^ 40 The Mill Mystery. dropped a word in his ear, and quietly left the room. The relief I felt was instantaneous. It was like having one coil of an op- pressive niglitmare released from ray breast. Dwight, on the contrary, who had sat like a statue ever since the room began to darken, showed no evidence of being influenced by this change, and, convinced that any movement towards a more cheerful order of things must come from me, I rose, and, without consulting his wishes, dropped the curtains and lighted the lamp. The instant I had done so I saw why he was so silent and immovable. Over- come by fatigue, and possibly by a long strain of suppressed emotion, he had fallen asleep, and ignorant of the fact that Cuy had left the room, slumbered as peacefully as if no break had occurred in the mysterious watch they had hitherto lo uninter- ruptedly maintained over their mother and me. The peacefulness of his sleeping face made a deep impression upon me. Though 1 knew tliat with his waking the old look would come back, it was an indescribable pleasure to me to see him, if but for an instant, free from, that shadowy something which dropped ^ vail of mistrust between us. It seemed to show me that *)vil was not innate in this man, and explained, if it dil not justify, the weakness which had made me more lenient, to what was doubtful in his appearance and character than I had been to that of his equally courteous but less attractive brotlier. The glances I allowed myself to cast in his direction were fleeting enough, however. Even if womanly delicacy had not forbidden me to look too often and too long that way, the sense of the unfair advantage I was possibly taking of his weakness made the possibility of encountering his waking eye a matter of some apprehension. I knew that honor demamied I should rouse him, that he would not thank me for letting him sleep after his brother had left the room ; and yet, whether froui too much heart — he was in such sore need of rest — or from too little conscience I was in such sore need of knowledge — I let him slumber on, and never made so much as a move after my first startled discovery of his condition. And so five minutes, ten minutes, went by, and imperceptildy to myself, the softening influence which hia sleeping countenance had exerted upon me deepened and strengthened till I began to ask if I had not given too much scope to my imagination since 1 had been in this house, and foolishly attributed a meaning to Mrs. Pollard. 41 expressions and events that in my calmor moments would show themselves to possess no special significance. The probability was that I had, and once allowing myself to admit this idea, it is astonishing how rapidly it gained possession of my judgment, altering the whole tenor of my thoughts, and if not exactly transforming the situation into one of cheerfulness and ease, at least robbing it of much of that sepulchral character which had hitherto made it so nearly unbearable to me. The surround- ings, too, seemed to partake of the new spirit of life which had seized me. The room looked less shadowy, and lost son e of ilmt element of mystery which had made its dimly seen corners the possible abode of supernatural visitants. Even the clock ticked less lugubriously, and that expressionless face on the pillow Great God ! it is looking at me ! With two wide open, stony eyes it is staring into my verv soul like a spirit from the tomb, awakening there a horror infinitely deeper than any I had felt before, though I knew it was but the signal of returning life to the sufferer, and that I ought to rouse myself and welcome it with suitable njinistrations, instead of sitting there like a statue of fear in the presence of an impending fate. But do what I would, say to myself what I would, I could not stir. A nightmare of terror was upon me, and not till X saw the stony lips move and the face take a look of life in the effort made to speak, did I burst the spell that held me and start to my feet. Even then I dared not look around nor raise my voice to warn the sleeper behind me that the moment so long waited for had come. A power behind myself seemed to hold me silent, waiting, watching for those words that struggled to life so painfully before me. At last they came, filling the room with echoes hollow as they were awful I " Dwight ! Guy ! If yoa do not want me to haunt you, swear you will never divulge what took place between you and i\Ir. Barrows at the mill." ^^ Mother /" ra.ng in horror through the room. And before I could turn my head, D wight Pollard leaped by me, and hiding the face of the dying woman on his breast, turned on me a gaze thi.t was half wild, half commanding, and said : " do for my brother ! He is iu the north-west room. Tell him our mother raves." Then, as I took a hurried, though by no means steady step towards the door, he added : '* I need not ask you to speak to no one else ? " Mi 'I 42 The Mill Mystery. " No," my cold lips essayed to utter, but an unmeaning murmur was all that left them. Tiie reaction from hope and trust to a now really tangible fear had been too sudden and overwhelming. But by the time I had reached the room to which I had been directed, I had regained in a measure my self-control. Guy Pol- lard at least should not see that I could be affected by anything that could happen in this house. Yet when, in answer to my sum- mons, he joined me in the hall, I found it difficult to preserve the ail" of respectful sympathy I had assumed, so searching was his look, and so direct the question with which he met his brother's message. My mother raves, you say ; will you be kind enough to tell me what her words were 1 " " Yes," returned I, scorning to prevaricate in a struggle I at least meant should be an honest one. " She called upon her sons, and said she would haunt them if ever they divulged what took place between them and Mr. Barrows at the mill." '* Ah ! " he coldly laughed ; " she does indeed rave." And while I admired his self-control, I could not prevent myself from expe riencing an increased dread of this nature that was so ready for all emergejicies and so panoplied against all shock. I might have felt a more vivid apprehension still, had I known what was. passing in his mind as we traversed the hall back to the sick chamber. But the instinct that had warned me of so much, did not warn me of that, and it was with no other feeling than one of surprise that I noted the extreme deference with which he opened his mother's door for me, and waited even in that moment of natural agitation and suspense for nie to pass over the^ threshold before he presumed to enter Vimself. Dwight Pollard, however, did not seem to be so blind, for a change passed over his face as he saw us, and he half rose from the crouching position he still held over his mother's form. He subsided back, however, as I drew to one side and let Guy pass unheeded to the bed, and it was in quite a natural tone he bade me seat myself in the alcove towards which he pointed, till his mother's condition required my services. That there was really nothing to be done for her, I saw myself in thy one glimpse I caught of her face as he started up. She was on the verge of death, and her last moments were certainly due to her children. So I passed into the alcove, which was ^ -msms^ -' Mrs. Pollard. 43 really a small room opening out of the large one, and flinging myself on the lounge I saw there, asked myself whether I ought to shut the door between us, or whether my devotion to Ada's cause bade me listen to whatever came directly in my way to hear'? The fact that I was in a measure prisoned there, there be- ing no other outlet to the room than the one by which I had en- tered, determined me to ignore for once the natural instincts of my ladyhood ; and pale and trembling to a degree I would not have wished seen by either of these two mysterious men, I sat in a dream of suspense, hearing and not hearing the low hum of their voices as they reasoned with or consoled the mother, now fast drifting away into an endless night. Suddenly — shall T ever forget the thrill it gave me ; — her voice rose again in those tones whose force and commanding power I have found it impossible to describe. " The oath ! the oath ! D wight, Guy, by my dying head " " Yes, mother," I heard one voice interpose ; and by the solemn murmur that followed, I gathered that Guy had thought it best to humor her wishes. The long-drawn sigh which issued from her lips testified to the relief he had given her, and the " Now Dwight ! " which followed was uttered in tones more ; r>tle and assured. But to this appeal no solemn murmur ensued, for at that instant a scream arose from the bed, and to the sound of an opening door rang out the words : " Keep her away ! What do you let her come in here for, to confound me and make me curse the day she was born ! Away ! i say, away." Florrified, and unable to restrain the impulse that moved me, I sprang to my feet and rushed upon the scene. The picture that met my eyes glares at me now from the black background of the past. On the bed, that roused figure, awful with the shadows of death, raised, in spite of the constraining hands of her two sons, into an attitude expressive of the most intense repulsion, terror, and dread ; and at the door, the fainting form of the pretty, dimpled, care-shunning daughter, who, struck to the heart by this l)oisoned dart from the hand that should have been lifted in bless- in'^^, stood swaying in dismay, her wide, blue eyes fixed on the terrible face before her, and her hands outstretched and clutching n-\ i -y 44 The Mill Mystery. in vague fear after some support that would sustain her, and pic vent her falling crushed to the floor. To bound to her side, and lift her gently out ot' her mother's sight, was the work of a moment. But in that moment my eyos had time to see such a flash of infinite longing take the place of the fierce passions upon that mother's face, that my heart stoiJ still, and I scarcely knew whether to bear my burden from tin room, or t^ rush with it to that bedside ard lay it, in all its child- like beauty, 0*1 that maddened mother's dying breast. A low, dt»'p groan trom the bed decided me. With that look of love on her face, otherwise distorted by every evil ))assion, Mrs. Pollard liad fallen back into the arms of her two sons, and quietly breathul her last. CHAPTER VTT. ADVANCES. ■■M For they are actions tli.it a man might play ; Biit I have that within which passeth show. - Hamlet. ISS STERLING ]" I was sitting by the side of Mrs. Harrington in her own room. By a feverish exertion of strength I had borne her thither from her mother's chamber, an(i was now watching the re- turning hues of life color her pale cheek. At the sound of my name, uttered behind me, I arose. I had expected a speedy visit from one of the brothers, but I had been in hope^ that it would bo Dwight, and not Guy, who would make it. " I must speak to you at once ; will you follow me V asked that gentleman, bowing respectfully as I turned. T glanced at Mrs. Harrington, but he impatiently shook his head. "Anice is at the door," he remarked. " She is accustomed to Mrs. Harrington, and will see that she is properly looked after." And, leading the way, he ushered me out, pausing only to cast one hurried glance back at his sister, as if to assure himself that she was not yet sufficiently recovered to note his action. In the hall he offered me his arm. " The gas has not yet been lighted," he explained, " and I wish you to go with me to the parlor." This sounded formidable, but I did not hesitate. I felt able to confront this man. " I am at your service," I declared, with a comfortable sensa- tion that my tone conveyed something of the uncompromising spirit I felt. The room to which he conducted me was on the first floor, and was darkness itself when we entered. It was musty, too, and . - - , 45 Mil ■ M i I i t I i ; '■k nAita timm m The Mill Mystery. chill, as with the memorj; of a past funeral and the premonition of a new one. Even the light which he soon made did not seem to be at home in the spot, biu wavered and flickered with faint gasps, as if it longed to efface itself and leave the grand and solitary apartment to its wonted atmosphere of cold reserve. By its feeble flame I noted but two details : one was the portrait of Mrs. Pollard in her youth, and the other was my own reflection in some distant mirror. The first filled me with strange thoughts, the face was so wickedly powerful, if I may so speak ; handsome, but with thit will beneath its beauty which, when allied to selfishness, has produced the Lucretia Borgias and Catherine de Medicis of the world. The reflection of which I speak, dimly seen as it was, had, on the contrary, a calming effect upon my mind. Weary as I un- doubtedly was, and pale if not haggard with the emotions I had experienced, there was something natural and alive in my image that recalled happier scenes to ray eyes, and gave me the necessary strength to confront the possibilities of the present interview. Mr. Pollard, who in his' taciturn gloom seemed like the natural genius of the spot, appeared to be struck by this same sensation also, for his eyes wandered more than once to the mirror, before he summoned up courage, or, perhaps, I should say, before he took the determination to look me in the face and open the con- versation. When he did, it was curious to note the strife of expression between his eye and lip : the one hard, cold, and un- yielding ; the other deprecating in its half-smile and falsely gentle, as if the mind that controlled it was even then divided between its wish to subdue and the necessity it felt to win. " Miss Sterling," si he began, '• it would be only folly for me to speak as if nothing aad occurred but an ordinary and natural death. It would be doing your good sense and womanly judg- ment but little honor, and putting myself, or rather ourselves — for we children are but one in this matter — in a position which would make any after-explanations exceedingly difficult. For explanations can be given, and in a word, for what has doubtless struck you as strange and terrible in my mother's last hours, — explanations which I am sure you will be glad to accept, as it is not natural for one so blooming in her womanlineb:' to wish to hamper her youth with dark thoughts, or to nurse suspicions contrary to her own candid and noble nature." lib Advances, 47 .1 He paused, but meeting with no response beyond a rather cool bow, the strife between his eye and lip became more marked. He went on, however, perfectly satisfied, his voice retaining its con- fident tone, whatever the disturbance communicated to his inward nature. " The explanation to which I allude is this," said he. " My mother for the past three months has been the victim of many un- wholesome delusions. The sickness of my father, which was somewhat prolonged, made great inroads upon her strength ; and his death, followed by the necessity of parting with Mrs. rlarring- ton — whom you perhaps know was for family reasons married immediately upon my father's decea&e, — sowed the seed of a mental weakness which culminated on her deathbed into a positive delirium. She had a notion, and has had it for weeks, unknovvn to every one but my brother and m xf, that Mrs. Harrington had been the occasion of some great .msfortune to us; wherefi-H the innocent girl had done nothing but follow out her mother's wishes, both in her marriage and in her settlement in a distant town. But the love my mother had felt for her was always the ruling passion of her life, and when she came to find herself robbed of a presence that was actually necessary to her well-being, her mind, by some strange subtlety of disease I do not profess to understand, confounded the source of her grief with its cause, attributing to this well-beloved daughter's will the suffering which only sprang out of the circumstances of the case. As to her wild remarks in regard to Mr. Barrows," he added with studied indifference, " and the oath she wished us to take, that was but an outgrowth of the shock she had received in hearing of the clergyman's death. For, of course, I need not assure 3 ou, Miss Sterling, that for all our readiness to take the oath she demanded, neither my brother nor myself ever were at the mill, or knew any more of the manner or cause of Mr. Barrows' death than you do." This distinct denial, made in quiet but emphatic tones, caused me to look up at him with what was p3rhaps something of an ex- pressive glance. For at its utterance the longing cry had risen in my heart, " Oil, that it were Dwight who had said that 1 " And the realization which it immediately brought of the glad credence which it would have received frora me had it only fallen from his lips caused an inward tremble of self-consciousness which " ;•! I ' 1 48 The Mill Mystery. doubtless communicated itself to my glance. For Guy Pollail, without waiting for any words I might have to say, leaned towards me with a gratified air, and with what I would like to call a smih^ exclaimed : " You have been in the house scarcely twenty-four hours, but I feel as if I could already give you the title of friend. Will you ac- cept it from me, Miss Sterling, and with it my most cordial ap- prociat'on and esteem ? " " Ah, this is more bait ! " I thought, and was tempted to in- dignantly repel the hand ho held out ; but something restrained me which I am too proud to call fear, and which in reality I do not think was fear, so much as it was wonder and the desire to understand the full motive of a condescension I oould not but feel was unprecedented in this arrogant nature. 1 therefore gave him my hand, but in a steady, mechanical way that I flattered myself committed me to nothing ; though the slight but unmistakable pressure he returned seemed to show that he took it for a sign of amity, if not of absolute surrender. " You relieve me of a great weight," he acknowledi^ed. " Had you been of a common-place type ot woman, you might have m!ul(- it very uncomfortable for us." " And what have I said and done," I could not help remarking, though neither so bitterly nor with so much irony as 1 might hav<' done had that desire of which I have spoken been less keen than it was, " to lead you to think I shall not yet do so 1 " " Your glance is your surety," was the response he made. "That and your honest hand, which does not lightly fall in that of a stranger." And with a real smile now, though it was by no means the reassuring and perhaps attractive one he doubtless in- tended it to be, he fixed me with his subtle glance, in which I began to read a meaning, if not a purpose, that made the blood leap indignantly to my heart, and caused me to feel as if I had somehow stumbled into a snare from which it would take more than ordinary skill and patience to escape. A look down the shadowy room restored my equanimity, how- ever. It was all so unreal, so ghostly, I could not help acknowl- edging to myself that I was moving in a dream which exaggerated every impression I received, even that which might be given by the bold gaze of an unscrupulous man So I determined not to believe in it, or in anything else I should see that night, unless it Advances, 40 wore in the stern soul of the woman who had just diod ; a qualifi- cation which my mind could not lielp making to itsolf as my eyes Coll again upon her portrait, with its cruel, unrelenting expression. *' You do not feel at homo ? " exclaimed Guy, interpreting ac- cording to his needs my silence and the look I had thrown about ine. " I do not wonder," he pursued," ** Dreariness like tliis has little to do with youth and beauty. But I hopo" — here he took a step nearer, while that meaning look — oh, my God ! was 1 deceiving myself ! — deepened in his eyes — '*I hope the day will come when you will see the sunshine stream through the gloom of these dim rescesses, and in the new cheer infused into the life of this old mansion forget the scenes of horror that encompassed the beginning of our friendship." And with a bow that seemed to iiitiniate that necessity, and not his wishes, forced him to terminate this interview, he was stepping back, when the door opened quick- ly iK'hind him, and the face of D wight Pollard showed itself on the threshold. The look he cast first at his brother and then at me caused a fresli tumult to take place in my breast. Was it displeasure he showed 1 I was pleased to think so. I could not be sure of his feeling, however, for almost on the instant his brow cleared, and ;i(lv:incing with an excuse for his interruption, he spoke a few low words to Guy. The latter gravely bowed, and with just a slight glance in my direction, immediately left the room. 1 was once more alone with D wight Pollard. He seemed to feel the situation as much as I did, for it v/as soveial moments before he spoke, and when he did, his voice had a subdued tremble in it which I had not noticed before. '■ Miss Sterling," he remarked, " my brother has been talking to you, trying, I presume, to explain to you the distressing scene to which you have just been witness." I bowed, for I seemed to have no words to say, though he evi- dently longed to hear me speak. " My brother is not always considerate in his manner of ad- dress," he went on, after a moment's intent scrutiny of my face. " I hope he has not made you feel other than satisfied of our good- will towards you?" "No," I faintly smiled, wishing I knew what feeling prompted this subtle attempt to learn the nature of the interview which had just passed. " Mr. Guy Pollard has never been any thing but polite to me." K ' 60 The Mill Mystery, He looked at mo again as if he would read my very soul, l)iit I gave him no help to its understanding, and he presently dropped his eyes. " Did he tell you," ho at last resumed, with some effort, " thnt II is our wish for you to remain in this house till our mother is buried 1 " •' No," I returned, " he said nothing about it." •* But you will do so? " he queried, in that rich and deep tono which thrilled so dangerously to my heart. •* I — I must have time to think," I faltered, taken by surpriso, and not seeing my way as clearly as I could wish. '* It is my desire to attend the funeral of Mr. Barrows and Miss Reynolds, and Mr. Pollard ! " I suddenly exclaimed, taking perhaps tlie most courageous resolution of my life, " I must be honest with you. It is useless for me to deny that the manner and circum- stances of your mother's death have made a great impression upon me ; that I cannot, in spite of all explanations, but connect some special significance to the oath you were requested to take ; and that, weakened as your mother may have been, something more terrible than the mere shock of hearing of her pastor's sudden decease must have occasioned emotions so intense as to end in death and delirium. If, therefore, you are willing to assure me, as your brother has done, that it was entirely a fancy of hers that you ever held any communication with Mr. Barrows at the mill, I will gladly promise to disabuse my mind of all unfavorable im- pressions, and even promise to stay here, if such be your desire, till the days of your trouble are over, and the body of your mother is laid in her grave." " And has my brother given you such an assurance as you speak of 1" " He has," I returned. " Then why do you ask one from me 1 " Was it possible for me to tell him ? " If it was not enough coming from his lips, how could it be coming from mine 1 " he continued. Shame and confusion kept me silent. ** Would it be ? " he persisted, this time with feeling and some- thing like a hint of eagerness in his voice. I dared not say " Yes," and yet I must have the assurance I demanded, if ever I was to know peace again. Advances. 51 " You do not answer ; but I think, I feel confident you would Relieve my word, MiHH Sterling." " 1 have asked for it," I returned. Ho turned frightfully pale ; it seemed as if he would 8i)eak, but the words did not come. I felt my lu^art growing sick, and us for him, he started violently away from my side, and took a turn or two up and down the room. " I cannot deny what looks like an accusation," ho declared at last, condng and standing before me with a sombre but deter- mined air. " My prid '■I ■ ! M- ft 58 The Mill Mystery, the idiot boy outside." And he held the door open till I Imd hurried in, when he vehemently closed it, looking at the same time as if he had shut the door on a threatening evil, or, at the most, on a bitter and haunting memory. That night I did an unworthy thing ; I listened to conversation which was not intended for my ears. It happened in this wise : I had been down stairs on an errand for Mrs. Harrington, and was coming back through the dimly lighted hall, when I saw Dwight Pollard step out of a room in front of me and accost a man that was locking and bolting the fro at door. " Simon," I heard him say, " You remember that beautiful flower I noticed yesterday in the conservatory ? " " "es, sir," the man replied, with some embarrassment in his voice. " Well, I want it picked to morrow for my mother's funeral. You will bring it to my room." " Oh, sir," I heard the man hurriedly int<3rpose, I'm sure I'm very sorry, sir ; but it has already been picked, and there won't be another out before next week." I knew I ouglit not to stay there and listen, especially as I could easily have gone on my way without attracting attention ; but having heard thus much, I found it impossible to go on till I had at least learned if Mr. Pollard had the motive I suspected in these inquiries of his. His next words satisfied me on this point. " And who was the fortunate one to obtain this flower ? " he asked, in an accent indifferent enough to deceive a merely casual listener. "Mr. Guy, sir." " Ah, so he noticed it too ! " was the remark with which Mr. Pollard dropped the subject, and hurried away from the gardeners side. The next instanf I perceived him pass into Guy's room, ami 1 saw that an ex]ilanation of some kind was about to take place be- twtHii the brothers. CHAPTER IX. AN UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY. Hold, hold my heart ! And you, my sinews, grovv not instant old, But bear me stiffly up ! — Hamlet. l^T^HETHER intentionally or uninte-^ionally, I was saved Y V *^^® embarrassment of meeting Guy Pollard at the break- fast table the next morning. I was, therefore, left in ignorance a« to the result of the conversation between the brothers, though from the softened manner of D wight, and the quiet assurance with which he surrounded nie with the delicate atmosphere of his homage, I could not but argue that he had come out master of the situation. It was, therefore, with mingled feelings of pleasure and appre- hension that 1 left the house at the hour appointed for the double funeral ; feelings that would have been yet more alive had I real- ized that I should not re-enter those gates again, or see the in- terior of that fatal house, till I had passed through many bitter exj)eriences. The ceremonies, in spite of the latent suspicion of the commu- nity that Mr. Barrows' death had been one of his own seeking, were of the most touching and impressive description. I was overcome by them, and left the churchyard before the final prayer was said, feeling as if the life of the last three days had been p dream, and that here in the memory of my lovely Ada and her griefs lay my true existence and the beginning and ending of my most sacred duty. Pursuant to this thought I did not turn immediately back to the gloomy mansion which claimed me for the present as its own, but wandered away in an opposite direction, soothing my con- 59 \ M ■ ■' ,. •: it i ■ 60 The Mill Mystery. science by the thought that it was many hours yet before the ser- vices would be held for Mrs. Pollard, and that neither the brothers nor Mrs. Harrington could have any use for me till that time. The road I had taken was a sequestered one, and strange as it may seem to some, did not awaken special memories in my mind till I came to a point where an opening in the trees gave to my view the vision of two tall chimneys ; when like a flash it came across me that I was on the mill road, and within a few short rods of the scene of Mr. Barrows' death. The sensation that seized me at thi;:. discovery was of the strangest kind. I felt that I had been led there ; and without a thought of what I was doing, pressed on v»ith ever-increasing rapidity till I came to the open doorway with its dismantled en- trance. / To pass over the now much-trodden grass and take my stand by the diiial walls was the work of an instant ; but when I had done this and experienced in a rush the loneliness and ghostly influence of the place, I was fain to turn back and leave it to the dream of its own fearful memories. But the sight of a small piece of paper pinned or pasted on the board that had been nailed in futile precaution across the open doorway deterred me. It was doubtless nothing more important than a notice from the town authorities, or possibly from the proprietors of the pla(;c, but my curiosity was excited, and I desired to see it. So 1 hastened over to where it was, and with little apprehension ot the shock that was destined to overwhelm me, read these words: " Those who &ay Mr. Barrows committed suicide lie. He was murdered, and by i)artie3 whose position places them above suspicion, as their wealth and serin- ing prosperity rob them of even the appearance of motive for such a terrible deed." No names mentioned ; but God ! And that word murdcrrd. It swam before my eyes ; it burned itself into every thing upon which I looked, it settled like a weight of iron upon my heart, pressing me nearer and nearer and nearer to the ground, till final- ly Ah ! can it be that this is really I, and that I am stand- ing here in a desolate place alone, with no human being in sight, and with a paper in my hand that seems to grow larger and larger as I gaze, and ask me what I mean to do now, and whether in tearing it from the wall where it hung, I allied myself to the ac- An Unexpected Discovei^y. Gl cased, or by one stroke proclaimed myself that avenger which, if th(! words on this paper were true, I owed it to ray Ada and the promise which 1 had given her to be '{ The cloud that enveloped my brain pressed upon me too closely for me to give an answer to qiestions so vital and terrific. I was in a maze, — a horrible (Jream ; I could not think, I could only suffer, and at last creep away like a shadow of guiltiness to where a cluster of pine-trees made a sort of retreat into which I felt I could thrust my almost maddened head and be lost. For great shocks reveal deep secrcits, and in the light of this pitiless accusation, this fact had revealed itself without disguise to my eyes, that it was love I felt for Dwight Pollard ; not ad- miration, not curiosity, not even the natural desire to understand one so seemingly impenetrable, but love, real, true, yearning, and des])otic love, which if well founded might have made my bliss for a lifetime, and which now I thrust the paper between my lips to keep down the cry that rose there, and hiding iny face deep down in the turf, mourned the weakness that made me so r NiJ' i I t I 68 The Mill Mystery. It was therefore with a composure altogether outward and superficial that I started for the quaint and tiny cottage which had been pointed out to me as the abode of these remarkable twins. I reached it just as the clock struck three, and was im. mediately impressed, as my informants evidently expected me to be, by the air of poetry and refinement that characterized even its humble exterior. But it was not till I had knocked at the door and been ushered into the house by the idiot brother, tliat my real astonishment began. For though the room in which I found myself did not, as I was afterwards assured, contain a single rich article, it certainly had the effect of luxuriousness upon the eye ; and had it not been for my inward agitation and suspense, would have produced a sense of languid pleasure, scarcely to be looked for in the abode of a simple working-girl. As it was, I was dimly conscious of a slight relief in the keen tension of my feelings, and turned with almost a sensation of hope to the boy who was smiling and grimacing beside me. But here another shock awaited me, for this boy was not the one I had seen at the mill barely two hours ago, or, rather, if it wert; the same — and the identity of his features, figure, and dress with those I knew so well, seemed to proclaim him to be — he was in such a different mood now as to appear like another being. Laughing, merry, and inane, he bore on his brow no sign nor suggestion of the fierce passion I had seen there, nor did his coun- tenance change, though I looked at him steadily and long with a gaze that was any thing but in keeping with his seemingly inno- cent mirth. " It is not the boy I have known," I suddenly decided in my mind ; and I cannot say in what wild surmises 1 might have in- dulged, if at that moment the door at my back had not opened and a figure stepped in which at the first glance attracte I my whole attention and absori)ed all my thought. Imagine a woman, lithe, blonde, beautiful, intense ; with features regular as the carver's hand could make them, l)nt in formed with a spirit so venomous, passionate, and perverse, that you lost sight of her beauty in your wonder at the formidihle nature of the character she betrayed. Then see her dressed as no other woman ever dressed before, in a robe of scarlet of a cut and make quite its own, and conceive, if you can, the agitation I felt as I realized that in her I beheld my rival, my antagonist, the enemy of Dwight Pollard's peace and mine. V_i % Rhoda Colwell. 69 ' That her face, even the hatred that visibly contracted it as her eyes met mine, were familiar to me in the countenance and ex- pression of the boy I had met, went for nothing. The beauty and malice of a seeming imbecile, and the same characteristics in a woman subtle and decided as this, awaken very different em tions in the mind. Though I had seen that same brow corrugated before, it was like a revelation to behold it now, and watch how the rosy :ii)S took a straight line and the half-shut, mysterious eyes burned like a thread of light, as she stretched out one white hand and asked half imperiously, half threateningly : " Who are you, and for what do you come to me ? " " I am Constance Sterling," I retorted, satisfied that nothing shoi t of the heroic treatment would avail with this woman ; " and if I do not mistake, I think you know very well why I come here." " Indeed ! " came in something like a hiss from between her set lips. And in one short instaat all that was best in her and all tliat was worst suddenly became visible, as turning to her softly clmcklmg brother, she motioned him gently out of the room, and then tinning to me, advanced a step and said : " Will you explain yourself. Miss — or is it Mrs. Constance Sterling ] " " I will explain myself," I returned, wondering, as I saw her cheeks pale and her eyes emit strange and fitful sparks, if I exerted any such influence over her as she did over me. " I said I thought you knew why I came here. I said this, because this is not the first time we have met, nor am I the first one who has presumed to address the other in a tone that to a sensitive ear sounded like menace. The idiot boy " " We will leave my brother out of the discussion," she broke in, in a voice so distinct I scarcely noticed that it was nothing but a wh'.^'.er. " 1 am not alluding to your brother," I declared, meeting her eyes with a look steady as her own, and I hope more open. " Oh, I see," she murmured ; and she took another step, while the flash of her glance cut like a knife. "You accuse me then " " Of assuming a disguise to spy upon Dwight Pollard." "It was a well-sped shaft, and quivered alive and burning in her heart of hearts. She gave a spring like the panther she ■Mi M ! i i I Vj V 70 The Mill Mystery, seemed at that minute, but instantly recovered herself, and launching upon me the strangest smile, mockingly exclaimed : " You are a brave woman." Then as I did not quail before her passion, drew up her slight figure to itd height and said; " We are worthy of each other, you and I. Tell me what you want." Then I felt my own cheek turn pale, and I was fain to sit upon the pile of cushions that were arranged in one corner for a seat. " What I want," I repeated. " I want to know how you dared put in language the insinuations which you hung up on the door of the old mill tins morning 1" Her eyes, narrowed, as I have said, in her seemingly habitual desire to keep their secrets to herself, flashed wide open at this, while a low and mirthless laugh escaped her lips. " So my labor was not entirely wasted ! " she cried. '' You saw " " Both the lines and the writer," I completed, relentlessly per- serving the advantage I felt myself to have gained — " the lines before they were defaced by the storm, the writer as she picked up the useless paper and went away." '' So ! '' she commented, with another echo of that joyless laughter ; " there are two spies instead of one in this game ! " " There are two women instead of one who know your enmity and purpose,'* I retorted. " How came you at the mill 1 " she suddenly asked, after a moment of silent communication with her own repressed soul. ** By accident," was all my reply. " Were you alone 1 " " I was." " Then no one but yourself saw the paper 1 " " No one but myself." She gave me a look I made no sign of understanding. " Have you told any one of what you saw and raad 1 " she in quired at last, as she perceived I meant to volunteer nothing. " That I am not called upon to state," I returned. *' Oh, you would play the lawyer ! " was her icy and i^uif t remark. " I would play nothing," was the answer that came from my lips. She drew back, and a change passed over her. Slowly as a fire is kindled, the passion grew and grew on her Rhoda Colwell. 71 face. When it was at its height she leaned her two hands on a table that stood between us, and, bending forward, whispered : " Do you love him 1 Are you going to fight to keep his name free from stain and his position unassailed before the world ? " Believe me if you can, but I could not answer ; possibly because I had as yet no answer to the question in my soul. She took advantage of my hesitation. ** Perhaps you think it is not worth while to fight me ; that I have no real weapons at my command 1 " and her eyes shot forth a flame that devoured my rising hopes and seared my heart as with a fiery steel. " I think you are a cruel woman," I declared, ** anxious to destroy what no longer gives you pleasure." " You know my story then 1 " she whispered. " He has talked about me, and to you 1 " " No," I replied, in quiet disdain. " I know nothing save what your own eyes and your own conduct tell me." "Then you shall," she murmured, after a moment's scrutiny of my face. " You shall hear how I have been loved, and iiow I have been forsaken. Perhaps it will help you to appreciate the man who is likely to wreck both our lives." I must have lifted my head at this, for she paused and gave me a curious look. " You don't love him 1 " she cried. " I shall not let him wreck my life," I responded. Her lip curled and her two hands closed violently at her sides. "You have not known him long," she declared. "You have not seen him at your feet, or heard his voice, as day by day he ] (leaded more and more passionately for a word or smile 1 You have not known his touch I "No," I impetuously cried, fascinated by her glance and tone. I thought she looked relieved, and realized that her words might have been as much an inquiry as an assertion. " Then do not boast," she said. The blood that was in ray cheeks went out of them. I felt my eyes close spasmodically, and hurriedly turned away my head. She watched me curiously. " Do you think 1 succumbed withoiit a struggle ? " she vehe- mently asked, after a moment or two of this silent torture. " Look at me. Am I a woman to listen to the passionate avowals of the ■V I ' I i w m f m 72 The Mill Mystery, first man that happens to glance m^^ way and imagine he would like to have me for his wife ? Is a handsome face and honeyed tongue sufficient to gain my good graces, even when it is backed by the wealth I love and the position to which I feel myself equal ] I tell you you uo not know Rhoda Colwell, if you think she could hti won easily. Days and days he haunted this room before I let his words creep much beyond my 'ars. I had a brother who needed all my care and all my affection, and I did not mean to marry, much less to love. But slowly and by degrees he got a hold upon my heart, and then, like the wretch who trusts himself to a maelsirom, I was swept round and round into the whirlpool of passion till not earth nor heaven could save me or make me again the free and light-hearted girl I was. This was two years ago, and to-day " She stopped, choked. I had never seen greater passion, as I had never seen a more fiery nature. *' It is his persistency I complain of," she murmured at last. **He forced me to love him. Had he left me when I first said • No,' I could have looked down on his face to-day with contempt But, no, he had a fancy that I was his destiny, and that he must possess me or die. Die ? He would not even let me die when I found that ray long-sought ' Yea' turned his worship into indiffer- ence, and his passion into constraint. But — " she suddenly cried, with a repetition of that laugh which now sounded so fear- ful in my ears — " all this does not answer your question as to how I dared publish the insinuations I tacked up on the old mill-door this morning." " No/* I shudderingly cried. " Ah ! I have waited long," she passionately asserted. ** Wrongs like mine are very patient, and are very still, but the time comes at last when even a woman weak and frail as I am can lift her hand in power ; and when she does lift it " " Hush ! " I exclaimed, bounding from my seat and seizing her upraised arm ; for her vivid figure seemed to emit a flame like death. '' Hush ! we want no tirades, you nor I ; only let me hear what D wight Pollard has done, and whether you knew what you were saying when you called him and his family " " Murderers ! ' she completed. I shook, but bowed my head. She loosed her arm from my grasp and stood for one moment contemplating me. Rkoda Colwell. 73 " You ara a powerful rival," she murmured. " He will love you just sii: montKs longer than he did me." I summoned up at once my pride and my composure. " And that would just be six months too long," I averred, " if he is whi^t you declare him to be." '• What ? " came from between iier set teeth, and she gave a spring that brought her close to my side. " You would hate him, if I proved to you that he and his brother and his mother were the planners, if not the executors, (.^ Mr. Barrows' death." '• Hate him 1 " I repeated, recoiling, all my womanhood up in arms before the fearful joy expressed in her voice and attitude. " I should try and forgot such a man ever existed. But I shall not be easily convinced," I continued, as I saw her lips open with a sort of eager hope terrible to witness. '* You are too anxious to kill ray love." "Oh, you will not be convinced," she asserted. " Ask Dwight Pollard what sort of garments those are which lie under the boards of the old mill, and see if he can answer you without trembling." " Garments ? " I repeated, in astonishment ; " garments 1 " " Yes," said she. " If he can hear you ask that question and not turn pale, stop me in my mad assertions, and fear his doom no more. But if he flinches " A frightful smile closed up the gap, and she seemed by a look to motion me towards the door. " But is that all you are going to tell me ? " I queried, dismayed at the prospect of our interview terminating thus. " Is it not enough 1 " she asked. " When you have seen him, 1 will sne you again. Can vou not wait for that hour 1 " I might have answered No. I was tempted to do so, as I had been tempted more than once to exert the full force of my spirit and criibh her. But I had an indomitable pride of my own, and did not wish to risk even the semblance of defeat. So I controlled myself and merely replied : *' I do not desire to see Dwight Pollard again. I am not in- tending to return to his house." " And yet you will see him," she averred. ** I can easily be patient till then." And she ca*Jt another look of dismissal towards the door. 74 The Mill Mystery. " You are a demon ! " I felt tempted to respond, but my own dignity restrained me as well as her beauty, which was something absolutely dazzling in its intensity and fire. *' I will have the truth from you yet," was what I did say, as I moved, heart-sick and de- sponding, from her side. And her slow " No doubt," seemed to fill up the silence like a knell, and give to my homeward journey a terror and a pang which proved that however I had deceived rayself, hoj/e had not given up its secret hold upon my heart. And I dreamed of her that night, and in my dream her evil beauty shone so triumphantly that ' v ^r tesi wonder was not that Dwight Poiiard had succumbed ' j fascinations, but that having once seen the glint of that sub :i*^ v ■;! shine from between those half shut lids, he could ever ha/ fou ^ ' strength to turn aside and let the fire he had roused burn itself aw ay. % CHAPTER XI. UNDER THE MILL FLOOR. I know, this act shows terrible and grim,— Othello. 1HAD never considered myself a courageous person. I was therefore surprised at my own temerity when, with morning li-iht, came an impulse to revisit the old mill, and by an examina- tion of its flooring, satisfy myself as to whether it held in hiding any such articles as had been alluded to by Rhoda Oolwell in the remarkable interview just cited. Not that I intended to put any such questions to D wight Pollard as she had suggested, or, indeed, had any intentions at all beyond the present. The outlook was too vague, my own mind too troubled, for me to concoct plans or to make any elaborate determinations. I could only perform the duty of the moment, and this visit seemed to me to be a duty, though not one of the pleasantest or even of the most promising character. I had therefore risen and was preparing myself in an abstracted way for breakfast, when I was violently interrupted by a resound- ing knock at the door. Alarmed, I scarcely knew why, I has- tened to open it, and fell back in very visible astonishment when I beheld standing before me no less a person than Anice, the late Mia. Pollard's maid. " I wanted to see you, miss," she said, coming in without an in- vitation, and carefully closing the door behind her. " So, as I hail leave to attend early mass this morning, 1 just slipped over here, which, if it is a liberty, I hope you will pardon, seeing it is for your own good." Not much encouraged by this preamble, I motioned her to take a seat, and then, turning my back to her, went on arranging my hair. 75 Ml I • 76 Tlie Mill Mystery. " I cannot imagine what errand you have with me, Anico " said I ; " but if is any thing important, let me hear it at onco, as I have an engagement this morning, and am in haste." A smile, which I could plainly see in the mirror before wliich I stood, passed shyly over her face. She took up her parasol from her lap, then laid it down again, and altogether showed consider- able embarrassment. But it did rot last long, and in another moment she was saying, in quite a bold way : " You took my place beside the mistress I loved, but I don't bear you no grudge, miss. On the contrary, I would do you a good turn ; for what are we here for, miss, if it's not to help one another 1 " As I had no answer for this worthy sentiment, she lapsed again into her former embarrassed state and as speedily recovered from it. Simpering in a manner that unconsciously put me on my guard, she remarked : " You left us very suddenly yesterday. Miss. Of course that is your own business, and I have nothing to say against it. But I thought if you knew what might bo gained by staying " She paused and gave me a look that was almost like an appeal. But I would not help her out. " Why," she went on desperately, with a backward toss of her head, "you might think as how we was not such very bad folks after all. I am sure you would make a very nice mistress to woik for. Miss Sterling," she simpered ; "and if you would just let me help you with your hair as I did old Mrs. Pollard " Angry, mortified, and ashamed of myself that I had listened to her so far, I turned on her with a look that seemed to make some impression even upon her. " How dare you — " I began, then paused, shocked at my own imprudence in thus betraying the depth of the feelings she had aroused. " I beg your pardon," I immediately added, recovering my composure oy a determined effort ; " you doubtless did not consider that you are not in a position to speak such words to me. Even if your insinuations meant anything serious, which I will not believe, our acquaintance"— I am afraid I threw some sarcasm into that word — " has scarcely been long enough to warrant yon in approaching me on any subject of a personal nature, least of all one that involves the names of those you live with and have served 80 long. If you have nothing better to say " Under the Mill Floor. 77 i ( Sho it>8e with a jerk that seeuiod to iny nyea as much aii oxi)re8- sion of disappointment as anger, and took a reluctant step or two (owards tlie door. " 1 am sure, I meant no offence, miss," she stammered, and took another step still more reluctantly than before. I trembled. Outrageous as it may seem, I wished at this mo- ment that honor and digrdty would allow me to call her back and question her as to the motive and meaning of her extraordinary conduct. For the thought had suddenly struck me that she might be a messenger — a most unworthy and humiliating one it is true, — and yet in some sort of a way a messenger, and my curiosity rose just in proportion as my pride rebelled. Anice, who was not lacking in wit, evidently felt, if she could not see, the struggle she had awakened in my mind, for she re- turned and gave me a look I no longer had the courage to resent. " It is only something I overheard Mr. Guy say to his brother," she faltered, opening and shutting her parasol with a nervous hand ; then, as I let my hair suddenly fall from my grasp, in the rush of relief I felt, blurted out : " You have beautiful hair, miss ; I don't wonder Mr. Guy should say, 'One of us two must marry that girl,* " and was gone like a flash from the room, leaving me in a state that bordered on stupefaction. This incident, so suggestive, and, alas ! so degrading to my self- esteem, produced a deep and painful effect on my mind. For hours 1 could not rid my ears of that final sentence : " One of us two must marry that girl." Nor could the events that speedily fol- lowed quite remove from my mind and heart the sting which this knowledge of the Pollards' base calculation and diplomacy had implanted. It had one favorable consequence, however. It nerved me to carry out the expedition I had planned, and gave to my somewhat failing purpose a heart of steel. The old mill to which I have twice carried you, and to which I most carry you again, was, as I have already said, a dilapidated and much dismantled structure. Though its walls were intact, many of its staircases were rotten, while its flooring was, as I knew, heavily broken away in spots, making it a dangerous task to walk about its passage-ways, or even to enter the large and solitary rooms which once shook to the whirr and hum of machin- ery. But it was not from such dangers as these I recoiled. If Heaven III ' I ^l 1 i^ ti h ' -if •» ' e tl ! i 78 TJie Mill Mystery. would not protect me from discovery and the possible intrusion of unwelcome visitants, I would willingly face the peril of a fall even in a |)lace so lonesome and remote. Indeed, my one source of gratitude as I sped through the streets that morning lay in the fact, I was so little known in S , I could pass and re-puss without awakening too much comment, especially when I wore u close veil, as I did on this occasion. Rhoda Colwell's house lay in my way. T took especial paius not to go by it, great as the relief would have been to know she was at home and not wandering the streets in the garb and character of the idiot boy. Though I felt I could not be deceived as to her identity, the mere thought of meeting her, with tliat mock smile of imbecility upon her lip, filled me with a dlHinay that made my walk anything but agreeable. It was consequently a positive relief when the entrance to the mill broke upon my view, and I found myself at my j'^urney's end unwatched and nn- followed ; nor could the unpromising nature of my task quite dish the spirit with which I began my search. My first efforts were in a room which had undoubtedly lu'cn used as an office. But upon inspecting the floor I found it 11 rm, and, convinced I should have to go further for what I was seek- ing, I hastily passed into the next room. This was of much larger dimensions, and here I i)aused longer, for more than one board tilted as I passed over it, and not a few of them were loose and could be shifted aside by a little extra exertion of strength. Hut, though I investigated every board that rocked under my step, I discovered nothing beneath them but the dust and debris of years, and so was forced to leave this room as I had the other, without gaining anything beyond a sense of hopelessness and the prospect of a weary back. And so on and on 1 went for an hour, and was beginning to realize the giant nature of my undertaking, when a sudden low sound of running water broke upon my ears, and t^oing to one of the many windows that opened before mc, I looked out and found I was in the very back of the mill, and in full sight of the dark and sullen stream that in tim^^=^ of yore used to feed ihe great wheel and run the machinery. Consequently I was in the last room ui)on the ground floor, and what struck me still more forcibly, near, if not directly over, that huge vat in the cellar which had served so fatal a purpose only a few short days before. Under the Mill Floor. II 79 Tlio Might of a flight of stairs descending at my li^ht into the iiollow diirkness beneath intensified my emotion. I seemed to be in direct communication with that scene of deatlj; and the thoii^'ht struck me that here, if anywhere in the whole building, must 1)0 found the mysterious hiding-place for which I was in search. It WHS therefore with extra care that I directed my glances along the uneven flooring, and I was scarcely surprised when, after a short examination of the various loose boards that rattled be- neath me, I discovered one that could be shifted without difficulty. Uut scarcely had I stooped to raise it when an emotion of fear seized me, and 1 started back alert and listening, though I was un- couHcidUs of having heard any thing more than the ordinary swash of the water beneath the windows and the beating of my own overiaxed heart. An instant's hearkening gave me the reassur- ance 1 needed, and convinced that I had alarmed myself unneces- sarily, I bent again over the board, and this time succeeded in moving it aside. A long, black garment, smoothly spread out to its full extent, instantly met my eye. The words of Rhoda Col- well were true ; the mill did contain certain articles of clothing concealed within it. I do not know what I expected when, a few minutes later, I pulled the garment out of the hole in which it lay buried, and spread it out before me. Not what I discovered, I am sure ; for when I had given it a glance, and found it was nothing more nor less than a domino, such as is worn by masqueraders, I experienced a shock that the mask, which fell out of its folds, scarcely served to allay. It jwas like the introduction of farce into a terrible tragedy ; and as I stood in a maze and surveyed the garment be- fore me till its black outline swam before my eyes, I remember thinking of the effect which had been produced, at a certain trial I had heard of, by the prisoner suddenly bursting into a laugh when the sentence of death was pronounced. But presently this feeling of incongruity gave way to one of hideous dread. If Dwipht Pollard could explain tL ■ presence of a domino and mask in this spot, then what sort of a man was Dwight Pollard, and what sort of a crime could it havt been that needed for its per- petration such adjuncts as these 1 The highwaymen of olden time, with their " Stand and deliver ! " seemed out of place in this quiet New England town ; nor was the character of any of the parties 1 r ' i, t ' H ■i .^ 1 ■ ; i , ' ^ 1 ■ ! i i ! •■r " i t i 1 ; "I 80 The Mill Mystery. involved, of a nature to make the association of this ma8(juerii(Ic gear with the tragedy j?one by seem either possible or even proha ble. And yet, there they lay ; and not all my wonder, nor all tiitj •peculations which their presence evoked, would serve to blot tlieni from the floor or explain the mystery of which they were the sign and aeai. So irnprc ssed was 1 at last by this thought that I broken the spell which bound me, and btgan to restore the articles to their pUce. I v/as just engaged in throwing the mask into the iiole, when the low but unmistakable sound of an approaching foot fall broke upon my ears, startling me more then a thunder-claj) would have done, and tilling me with a fear that aiinoHt I);iriilyzod my movements. 1 controlled mycelf. however, and hastily pulled the board back to its place, after which IfranticuHy looked about me for some means of concealment or escape. I found but one. The stairca/ie which ran down to the celliir was but a few feet off, and if I could summon courage to make use of it, would lead to a plac«» of comparative safety. But the darkneHS of tha*. spot seemed worse than the light of this, and I stood \\m- tilting on the brink of the staircase till the foot steps drew so ik 'ir I dared not linger longer, and plunged below with such deajjerate haste, I wonder 1 did not trip and fall headlong to the cell ir-tloor. I did not, however, nor do I seem to have made any special noise, for the footsteps above did not hasten. I had, therefore, the sat- isfaction of feeling myself saved from what might have boon u very special danger, and was moving slowly away, when the fas»; pech doth give my conscience ! —Hamlet. HE was standing with his back to me, and to all appearance was unconscious that he was under the surveillance of any eye. I had thus a moment in which to collect my energies and subdue my emotions ; and I availed myself of it to such good pur- pose that by the time he had put the board back into its place I was ready to face him. He did not turn round, however ; so, after a moment of silent suspense, I mounted the last stair, and thinking of nothing, hoping for nothing, wishing for nothing, stood waiting, with my eye fixed on the domino he was now rapidly folding into smaller compass. And thus I stood, like a pallid automaton, when the instant cams for him to change his position, and he saw me. The cry that rose to his lips but did not escape them, the reel which his ligure gave before it stiffened into marble, testified to the shock ho had received, and also to the sense of unreality with which my ap- pearance in this wise must have impressed him. His look, his attitude were those of a man gazing upon a spectre, and as J met his glance with mine, I was conscious of a feeling of unreality ray self, as if the whole occurrence were a dream, and he and I hut shadows which another moment would dissolve. But alas ! this was no more a dream than were the other strange and tragic events which had gone before ; and in an instant we both knew it, and were standing face to face with wretched inquiry in the looks we fixed upon each other across the domino which had fallen from his hands. He was tlie first to speak. 82 Dwight Pollard. 83 ever ; so, was now " Miss Sterling ! " he exclaimed, in a light tone, cruelly belied by the trembling lips from which it issued, " by what fortunate chance do I see you again, and in a place I should have thought to be the last you would be likely to visit? " "By the same chance," I rejoined, "which appears to have brought you here. The desire to make sure if what I heard about tlie mill having been used as a secreting place for certain mysteri- ous articles, was true." And I pointed to the mask and domino lying at my feet. His eye, which had followed the direction of my finger, grew dark and troubled. " Then it was your hand — " he impetuously began. " Which disturbed these garments before you 1 Yes. And I sliall make no apology for the action," I continued, "since it was done in the hope of proving false certain insinuations which had bfM'n made to me in your regard." " Insinuations 1 " he repeated. " Yes," I declared, in an agony between my longings to hear him vindicate himself and the desire to be true to the obligations 1 wab under to Ada lleynolds. '* Insinuations of the worst, the most terrible, character." Then, as I saw him fall back, stricken in something more than his pride, T hastened to inquire : " Have you an enemy in town, Mr. Pollard 1 " He composed himself with a start, looking at me fixedly, and r(!])lied in what struck me as a stra'ige tone even for such an occa- sion as this : "Perhaps." " One who out of revenge," I proceeded, " might be induced to attach your name to suspicions calculated to rob you of honor, if not of life ? " ' Perhaps," he again i^turned ; but this time with a fierceness that almost made me recoil, though I knew it was directed against some one beside myself. "Then it may be," I said, " that you have but to speak to re- lieve my mind of the heaviest weight which has ever fallen upon it. These articles," I pursued, " have they, or have they not, any connection with the tragedy which makes the place in which we stand memorable ? " "I cannot answer you, Miss Sterling." " Cannot answer me 1 " ■III I j J I ^'1 \ \ I. I I , 84 Tlie Mill Mystery. " Cannot answer you," he reiterated, turning Imggard about th»' eyes and lips. •' Then," I brokenly rejoined, " I had better leave this place ; i do not Ree what more I have to do or say here." " God ! " he cried, detaining mo with a gesture full of agony and doubt. " Do not leave mo so ; let me tliink. Let me wci^^'h the situation and see where I stand, in your eyes at least. Tell mo what my enemy has said ! " ho demanded, his face, his very form, flashing with a terril)le rage tiiat seemed to have as niucii i'ldignation as fear in it. *' Your enemy," 1 replied, in the steady voice of despair, 'ac- cuses you in so many words — of murder." " I expected to see him recoil, burst forth into cursing or fvon- zied declamation, by which men betray their inward consterna- tion and remorse ; f)ut he did none of these things. Instead of that he laughed ; a hideous laugh that seemed to. shake the rafteis above us and echo(;.l in an«l out of the caverned recesses boncatli, "Accused ?neV' he muttered ; and it is not in language t ) ex- press the scorn he infused into the words. Stunned, and scarcely knowing what to tliink, I gazed at lilm helplessly. He seemed to ff ^d my glance, for, alter a moment's contemplation of my face, his mam. er suddenly changed, and Wow- ing with a grim i)oliteness full of sarcasm, he asked : '' And when did you see my en(!»ny and holr< ed •' Mi I me. Dwi(jht Polla 'I \JU, 85 %\ •* I begin to think I have," he answered, giving rao a look that somehow broke down the barriers of ice between us and made my next words come in a faltering tonj : " And could you stop to bestow a thought upon a man while a woman held your secret? Did you think our sex was 8o long- sutVt'ring, or this special woman so generous " 1 (lid not go on, for he had leaped the gap which separated us and Inid me gently but firmly by the arm. " Of whom are you speaking ? " he demanded. " What woman has my secret — if socret I have 1 Let me hear her name, now, at once.'' " Is it possible," I murmured, " that you do not know 1 " '' The ntime ! tho name ! he reiterated, his eyes ablaze, his hand shaking where it ^;rasped my arm. '♦ iUioda Colwell,' I returned, looking him btcadily in the eye. " Impossible ! " his lips seemed to breathe, nnrised at your emotion," I said ; " she is a dan- t" ou.s woman." ^< looked at me with dull eyes ; he did not seem to hear what i Has-'. •* ilaw can it be '\ " he muttered ; and his glance t<»ok a furtive ;iH|)(!ct as it traveUod slowly round the room and liimlly settled iijujii th'! :aa.s:» and domino at my feet. " Was it she who told ^'iii where to look fur tiioso V he suddenly queried m an almost \ioI<'iit lone. 1 bowed ; 1 had no wish to speak. " Slu' is an imp, a witch, an emissary of tlio Kvll One," ho Vflicmehtly declared ; and tuiiud away, murmiirirjg, as it seemed lo me, th(is«' sacred words of Scripture, *' H:? sure your sin will find you out." 1 lolt the sobs rise in my throat. I could bear but little more. To recover myself, I 1 joked a.vay from him, even passed to a win- dow and gazed out. Any thing but \\u) sight of this humiliation ill one who could eanily hav(5 been my idol. I M'as tiiereforo t.iiidiug with my back to him wJu»n he hnally approached, and Lomhing me with the tip of bis linger, caiudy remarked : J? \ ii 8C The Mill Mystery. ^ i ^1 [i PI f " I did not know you wore acquainted with MisH Col well." " Nor was I till yesterday," I rejoined. " Fate made us know each other at one interview, if one could be said to ever know such a woman as she is." *' Fate is to blame for much ; is it also to blame for the fact that you sought her ] Or did she seek you % " " I sought her," I said ; and, not seeing my better road to a proper explanation of my conduct than the truth, I told him in a few words of the notice I had seen posted upon the mill, and of how I had afterwards surprised Rhoda Colwell there, and what the conclusions were which I had thereby drawn ; though, from some motive of delicacy I do not yet understand, I refrained from saying any thing about her disguise, and left him to infer that it was in her own proper person I had seen her. He seemed to be both wonder-stricken and moved bv th(! reel- tal, and did not rest till he had won from mo the douMe fact that Rhoda Colwell ev'ilently knew much more than she revealed, while I, on the cou^.ary, knew ranch less. The latter discovery seemed to greatly gratify him, and while his brow lost none of the look of heavy anxiety which had settled upon it with the intro- duction of this woman's name rato our colloquy, I noticed that his voice was lighter, and that he surveyed me with less distrust and posKibly with less fear. His next words showed the lirection his thoughts were taking. " Yon ha'-o shown an interest in my fate, Miss Sterling, in s| ite of the many reasons you had for thinking it a degraded one, and fo*' this I thiMik you with all my heart. Will you prove your womanliness still furthor by clinging U the Mief which 1 have endeavoured to force upon you, that notwithstanding all you have heard and st^en, I stand in no wise amenable to the law, neitlier have 1 utteri'tl, in your hearing at lef.it, aught but the truth in re- gard to this "hole matter ? " " And you can swear this to ne 1" I uttered, joyfully. " By my father's grave, if you desire it," he returned. A flood of hope rushed through my heart. I was but a weak woman, and his voice and look at that moment would hAveatVectod the coldest nature. '• I am bound to believe you," I said , " though there is much 1 do not understand — much which you ought ^^o explain if you wish to disabuae my -lundol all doubt in your regard, I would be layins,' wor ** What 1 did not see ?" she interpolated, looking him straight in the eye as might the serpent to which I have compared her. *'Good God!" was his horrified exclamation; "and yet you know " " Pardon me," her voice broke in again. ** You have heard what I know," and she bowed, with such an inimitable and mock- ing grace, and yet with such an air of sinister resolve, that he stood like one fascinated, and let her move away towards the door without seeking by word or look to stop her. I hold you tight, you see," were her parting words to him as she paused just upon the threshold to give us a last and scornful look. " So tight," she added, shaking her close-shut hand, that I doubt if even your life could escape should I choose to remember in court what I have remembeied before you two here to-day." ^ "And forget " he began. IGay Pollard. 99 " Aiul forgot," she ropeatod, " what might defeat tho ends of that j ustico which demands a life for the one so wantonly sacri- ficed in the vat whose hideous depths now open almost under your feet." And, having said these words, she turned to go, when, looking up, she found her passage barred by the dark form of Guy Pollard, who, standing in the doorway with his hands upon either lintel, surveyed her with his saturnine smile, in which for (liis once I saw something that did not make me recoil, certain cs I now was of his innate villany and absolute connection with Mr. Barrows' death. She herself seemed to feel that she had met her master ; for, with a hurried look in his face, she drew slowly back, and, folding her arms, waited for him to move with a patience too nonchalant not to be forced. But he did not seem inclined to move, and I beheld a faint blush as of anger break out on her cheek, though her attitude re- tained its air of superb indifference, and her lips, where they closed upon each other, did not so much as break their lines for an instant. " You are not going, Miss Colwell," were the words with which he at last broke the almost iutolerable suspense of the moment; *' at least, not till you have given us the date of this remarkable experience of yours." "The date?" she repeated, icidly. ** What day w.'.s it that Mr. Barrows was found in the vat ? " she inquired, turning to me with an indifferent look. His hand fell like iron on her arm. " You need not appeal to Miss Sterling, " he remarked. " / am asking you this question, and I am not a man to be baulked nor frightened by you when my life itself is at stake. What night was it on which you saw me place Mr. Barrows in the vat ? I command you to tell me, or " His hands closed on her arm, and — she did not scream, but I did ; for the look of the inquisitor was in his face, and I saw that she must succumb, or be broken like a reed before our eyes. She chose to succumb. Peadly pale and shaking with the terror with which he evidently inspired her, she turned like a wild creature caught in the toils, and gasped out : " It was a night in August — the seventeeth, I think. I wish you and your brother much joy of the acknowledgment." i H ' ^1 ! I'. 100 The Mill Mystery., He (lid not answer, only dropped hor arm, an request that it be allowed to pass through the hands of Miss Oolwell. Mv reasons for this are well founded. CHAPTER XV. A GOSSIP. This something settled matter in his heart, Whereon his brains still beating, puts him thus From fashion of himself. —Hamlet. IHA.D not taken this tone with both my correspondents with- out a secret hope of being able to do something myself to- wards the establishment of Mr. Pollard's innocence. How, I could not very plainly perceive that day or the next, but as time elapsed and my brain cleared and my judgment returned, I at last saw the way to an effort which might not be without consequences of a satis- factory nature. What that effort was you may perhaps conjecture from the fact that the first walk that I took was in the direction of the cottage where Mr. Barrows had formerly lived. The rooms which he had occupied were for rent, and my ostensible errand was to hire them. The real motive of my visit, however, wgs to learn something more of the deceased clergyman's life and ways than I then knew ; if happily out of some hitherto unnoticed event in his late history I might receive a hint which should ulti- mately lead me to the solution of the mystery which was involv- ing my happiness. I was not as unsuccessful in this attempt as one might anticipate. The lady of the house was a gossip, and the subject of Mr. Bar- rows' death was an inexhaustible topic of interest to her. I had but to mention his name, and straightway a tide of words flowed from her lips, which, if mostly words, contained here and there intimations of certain facts which I felt it was well enough for me to know, even if they did not amount to anything like an ex- planation of the tragedy. Among these was one which only my fear of showing myself too much interested in her theme prevent- ed me from probing to the bottom. This was, that for a month 109 ill it 110 The Mill Mystery. at least before his death Mr. Barrows had seemed to her like a changed man. A month — that was about the interval which had elapsed between his first visit to the mill and his last ; and the evidence that he showed an alteration of demeanor in that time might have its value and might not. I resolved to cultivate Mrs. Simpson's acquaintance, and sometime put her a question or two that would satisfy me upon this point. This determination was all the easier to make in that I found the rooms I had come to see sufficiently to my liking to warrant me in taking them. Not that I should have hesitated to do this had they been as unattractive as they were pleasant. It was not their agreeableness that won me, but the fact that Mr. Barrows' personal belongings had not yet been moved, and that for a short time at least I should find myself in possession of his library, and face to fr' e with the same articles of taste and study which had surrounued bira in his lifetime, and helped to mould, if not to make, the man. I should thus obtain a knowledge of his charac- ter, and some day, who knows, might flash upon his secret. For that he possessed one, and was by no means the plain and simple charact<^r I had been led to believe, was apparent to me from the first gliiijpso I had of these rooms ; there being in every object that marked his tas:e a certain individuality and purpose that be- trayed a stern and mystic soul ; one that could hide itself, perhaps, beneath a practical exterior, but which, in ways like this, must speak, and speak loudly too, of its own inward promptings and tendency. The evening when I first brought these objects under a close and conscientious scrutiny, was a memorable one to me. I had moved in early that day, and with a woman's unreasoning caprice had forborne to cast more than the most cursory glance around, being content to see that all was as I had left it at my first visit, and that neither desk nor library had been disturbed. But when supper was over, and I could set myself with a free mind to a con- templation of my new surroundings, I found that my curiosity could no longer delay the careful tour of inspection to which I felt myself invited by the freshness and beauty of the pictures, and one or two of the statuettes which adorned the walls about me. One painting in especial attracted me, and made me choose for my first contemplation that side of the room on which it hung. It was a copy of some French painting, and represented the temptu- A Gossip. lU tlon of a certain saint. A curious choice of subject, you may tliiiik, to adorn a Protestant clergyman's wall, but if you could have seen it, and marked the extreme expression of mortal strug- gle on the face of the temptod, who, with eyes shut, and hands clutching till it bent the cross of twigs stuck in the crevices of the rocks beneath which he writhed, waited for the victory over self that was just beginning to cast its light upon his brow, you would have felt that it was good to hang before the eyes of any one in whom conflict of any kind was waging. Upon me the effect was instantaneous, and so real that I have never been able to think of that momeit without a sense of awe and rending of the heart. Human passion assumed a new significance in my mind, and the will and faith of a strong man suffering from its power, yet with- standing it to the very last gasp by the help of his trust in God, rose to such an exalted position in my mind, that 1 felt then, as I feel now whenever I remember this picture, that my whole moral nature had received, from its contemplation, an impetus towards religion and self-denial. While I was still absorbed in gazing at it, my landlady entered the room, and seeing me posed before the picture, quite sympathizingly exclaimed : '* Isn't that a dreadful painting, Miss Sterling, to have in any cue's room ? I don't wonder Mr. Barrows wanted to cover it up." " Cover it up ? " I repeated, turning hastily in my surprise. " Yes," she replied, goiii^;;; to a drawer in his desk and taking out a small engraving, which she brought me. " For nearly a month before his death he had this picture stuck up over the other with pins. You can see the pniholes now, if you look ; they went right through the canvass. I thought it a very sensible thing to do, myself ; but when I spoke of it to him one day, re- marking that I had always thought the picture unfit for any one to see, he gave me such a look that I thought then he must be crazy. But no one else saw anything amiss in him, and, as I did not want to lose a good lodger, I let him stay on, though my mind did sometimes misgive me." The engraving she had handed me was almost as suggestive as the painting it had been used to conceal ; but at this remarkable statement from Mrs. Simpson's lips I laid it quickly down. " You think he was crazy 1" 1 askeu. " I think he committed suicide," she affirmed. k' Id i I I I I i ; 1 h^ ^ Ul t i • 1 thing liko a sensation of joy in my breast ! Mrs. Simpson, too much interested in her theme to notice uie, went confidently on. " You see, folks that live in the same house with a person, learn to know them as other folks can't. Not that Mr. Barrows evrr talked to me ; he was a deal too much absorbed in his studios for that ; but he ate at my table, and went in and out of my front door, and if a woman cannot learn something about a man undei those circumstances, then she is no good, that is all I have got to say about her." I was amused and slightly smiled, but she needed no encourage- ment to proceed. " The way he would drop into a brown study over his meat and potatoes was a caution to my mind. A minister that don't eat is — an anomaly," she burst out. " I have boarded them before, and I know they like the good things of life as well as anybody. But Mr. Barrows, latterly at least, never seemed to see what was on the table before him, but ate because his plate of food was there, and had to be disposed of in some way. One day, I re member in particular, I had baked dumplings, for he used to be very fond of them, and would eat two without any urging ; but this day he either did not put enough sauce on them, or else his whole appetite had changed ; for he suddenly looked down at his plate and shuddered, almost as if he were in a chill, and, getting up, was going away, when I summoned up courage to ask if the dumplings were not as good as usual. He turned at the door — 1 can see him now, — and mechanically shaking his head, seemed to be trying to utter some apology. But he presently stopped in that attempt, and, pointing quickly at the table, said, in his ac- customed tones : ' You need not make me any more desserts, Mrs. Simpson, I shall not indulge in them in the future * : and went out, without saying whether he was sick or what. And that was the end of the dumplings, and of many a good thing besides." " And is that all — " I began ; but she broke in before the '^ words were half out of my mouth. ** But the strangest thing I ever see in him was this : I have not said much about it, for the people that went to his church are A Gossip. 113 a high and mighty lot, and wouldn't bear a word said against his sanity, even by one as had more opportunities than they of know- ing him. But you are a stranger in town, and can't have no such foolish touchiness about a person that is nothing to you, ho I will just tell you all about it. You see, when he had visitors — and oft" and on a good many came — I used to seat them in the parlor be- low, till I was sure he was ready to receive them. This had hap- pened one evening, and I had gone up to his door to notify him that a stranger was down-stairs, when I heard such a peculiar noise issuing from his room, that I just stood stock-still on the door mat to listen. It was a swishing sound, followed by a — Miss Sterling," she suddenly broke in, in a half awe-struck, half- frightened tone, ** did you ever hear any one whipped ? If you have, you will know why I stood shuddering at that door full two minutes before I dared lift my hand and knock. Not that I could believe Mr. Barrows was whipping any body, but the sound was so like it, and I was so certain besides that I had heard some- thing like a smothered cry follow it, that nothing short of the most imperative necessity would have given me the courage to call him; my imagination filling the room with all sorts of frightful images ; images that did not fade away in a hurry," she went on, with a look of shrinking terror about her which I am not sure was not reflected in my own face, " when, after the longest waiting I ever had at his door, he slowly came across the room and opened it, showing me a face as white as a sheet, and a hand that trembled so that he dropped the card I gave him and had to pick it up. Had there been a child there " " But there wasn't ! " I interrupted, shocked and forced to de- fend him in spite of myself. " No, nor anybody else. For when he went downstairs, I look- ed and there was no one there, and nothing uncommon about the room, except that I thought his bookcase looked as if it had been moved. And it had ; for next day when I swept this room — it did not need sweeping, but one can't wait for ever to satisfy their curiosity — I just looked behind that case, and what do you think I found ? A strap — a regular leather strap — ^just such as " " Good God ! " I interrupted ; " you do not think he had been using it when you went to the door ] " " I do," she said. " I think he had a fit of somethi-ig like in- sanity upon him, and had been swinging that strap Well, I r Ml 114 The Mill Mystery, will not say against what, for I do not know, but might it not have been against the fiends and goblins with which crazy people sometimes imagine they are surrounded 1 " " Possibly," I acquiesced, though my tone could not have been one of any strong conviction. " Insane persons sometimes do strange things," she continued ; *' and that he did not show himself violent before folks is no sign he did not let himself out sometimes when he was alone. The very fact that he restrained himself when he went into the pulpit and visited among his friends, may have made him wilder when he got ail by himself. I am sure I remembered having heard of a case where a man lived for ten years in a town without a single neighbor suspecting him of insanity ; yet his wife suffered con- stantly from his freaks, and finally fell a victim to his violence." " But Mr. Barrows was such a brilliant man," I objected. ** His sermons up to the last are models of eloquence." " Oh, he could preach," she assented. Seeing that she was not to be moved in her convictions, I ven- tured upon a few questions. " Have you ever thought," I asked, " what it was that created such a change in him 1 You say you noticed it for a month before his death ; could anything have happened to disturb him at that time ? " " Not that I know of," she answered, with great readiness. " T was away for a week in August, and it was when I first came back that I observed how different he was from what he had been before. I thought at first it was the hot weather, but heat don't make one restless and unfit to sit quiet in one's chair. Nor does it drive a man to work as if the very evil one was in him, keeping the light burning sometimes till two in the morning, while he wrote and walked, and walked and wrote, liill I thought my head would burst vvith sympathy for him." " He was finishing a book, was he not ? I think I have heard he left a completed manuscript behind him ? " " Yes ; and I don't think it very singular that the last word should have been written, and the whole parcel done up and sent away to his publisher, two days before his death, if he had not known what was going to happen to him ? " ** And was it ? " I inquired. A Gossip. 116 " Yes, it was ; for I was in the room when ho signovl his name to it, and heard his sigh of relief, and saw him, too, when, a little wliile afterwards, he took the bundle out to the post-otKco. I remember thinking, ' Well, now for some rest ni}j;lits 1 ' little imagining what rest was in store for him, poor soul ! " *' Did you know that Mr. Barrows was engaged '? " I suddenly asked, unable to restrain my impatience any longer. '* No, 1 did not," she rather sharply replied, as if her lack of knowledge on that subject had been rather a sore point with her. "I may have suspected there was some one he was interested in, but I am sure nobody ever imagined her as being the one. Poor girl, she must have thought a heap of him to die in tiiat way." She looked at me as she said this, anticipating, perhaps, a return of the confidences she had made me. But I could not talk of Ada to her, and after a moment of silent waiting she went eagerly on. " Perhaps a lover'n quarrel lay at the bottom of the whole matter," she suggested. " Miss Reynolds was a sweet girl and loved him very devotedly, of course ; but they might have had a tiff for all that, and in a nature as sensitive as his, the least thing will sometimes unhinge the mind." But I could only shake my head at this; the supposition was at at once too painful and absurd. " Well, well," the garrulous woman went on, in no wise abashed, " there are some things that come easy and some things that come hard. Why Mr. Barrows went the way he did is one of the hard things to understand, but that he did go, and that of his own frenzied will, I am as suko as that two and two make four, and four from four leaves nothing." I thought of all the others who secretly or openly expressed the same opinion, and felt my heart grow lighter. Then I thought of Khoda Colwell, and then "Just what time was it," I asked, " when you were away in Was it before the seventeenth, or after ] I inquired. August ? because- But evidently she did not care why I inquired. " It was during that week," she broke in. " I cause it was on the sixteenth that Mr. Pollard died, and I not here to attend the funeral. I came back " But it was no matter to me now when she came back. She had not been at home the night when Mr. Barrows was beguiled into remember be- was \' li Vy\ ■ I .1 if.' y~-: 116 The Mill Myderi/. his HrHt visit to tho mill, and she had mentionud a name L hud lung been eager to have introduced into the conversation. •'You knew Mr. Pollard 1" 1 therefore interposed without ceremony. " lie was a very rich man, was ho not 1 " •' Yes," she assented. " I suppose the children wiH hav»' tlic whole i)roperty, now that the old lady is gone. I hope Mr. Har- rington will be satisfied. He just married that girl for her nionej . Tiiat, 1 am sure, you will hear everybody say." " Yet she is exceedingly pretty," 1 suggested. " Oh, yes, too pretty ; she makes one think of a wax doll. Hut these Knglish lords don't care for beauty without there is a deal of hard cash fco back it, and if Agnes Pollard had been as poor as — what other beauty have we in town 1 " " There is a girl called llhoda Col well," I ventured. " Ivhoda Colwell ! Do you call her a beauty 1 I know some folks think she is — well, then, let us say as lihoda Colwell, he would have made her any proposal sooner than that of his hand." " And is Mr. Harrington a lord ] " I asked, feeling that I was lighting upon some very strange truths. " He is the next heir to one. A nephew, I believe, or else a cousin. I cannot keep track of all those fine distinctions in peo- ple I never saw." "They were married privately and right after Mr. Pollard's death, I have heard." " Yes, and for no other earthly reason that one ever heard of than to have it settled and done ; for Mr. Harrington did not take away his wife from the country ; nor does he intend to an far as I can learn. Everybody thought it a very strange proceed- ing, and none too respectful to Mr. Pollard's memory either." I thought of all I had heard and seen in that house, and won- dered. " Mr. Pollard was such a nice man, too," she pursued, in a musing tone. " Not a commanding person, like his wife, but so good and kind and attentive to poor folks like me. I never liked a man more than I did Mr. Pollard, and I have always thought that if he had had a different kind of mother for his chil- dren — but what is the use of criticising the poor woman now. She is dead and so is he, and the children will do very well now with all that money to back them in any caprice they may have." *' You seem to know them well," I remarked, fearful she would observe the emotioa I could not quite keep out of my face. Il'l A Oo»sip, 117 "No," she returned, with an assumption of grimnoss, which was ovidontly meant for sarcasm, " not well. Every one knows tho Pollards, but I never hoard any one say they knew them well." " Didn't Mr. Barrows 1 " I tremblingly inquired, anxious for her reply, yet fearful of connecting those two names. " Not that I ever saw," she returned, showing no special inter- est in the question, or in the fact that it was seemingly of some importance to me. " Bitin't they use to come here to see him 1 " I proceeded, emboldened by her evident lack of perspicuity. " None of them ? " I added, seeing her about to shake her head. " Oh, Dwight and Guy would come here if they had any busi- nens with him," she allowed. " But that is n't intimacy ; the Pollards are intimate with nobody." She seemed to be rather proud of it, and as I did not see my way just then to acquire any further information, I sank with a weary air into a chair, turning the conversation as I did so upon other and totally irrelevant topics. But no topic was of much in- terest to her, that did not in some way involve Mr. Barrows ; and after a few minutes of desultory chat, she pleaded the excuse of business and hurriedly left the room. 4 I I CHAPTER XVI. THE GREEN ENVELOPE. Sir, you shall understand what hath befall'n, Which, as I think, you know not. Here is a letter. —Othello. HER departure was a relief to me. Firat, because I had heard so jauch, I wanted an opportunity of digesting it ; and, secondly, because of my interest in the engraving she had shown me, and the impatience I felt to study it more closely. I took it up the moment siie closed the door. It was a picture of a martyr, and had evidently been cut from some good-sized book. It represented a man clothed in a long white garment, standing with his back to the stake, and his hand held out to the flames, which were slowly consuming it. Asa work of art, it was ordinary ; as the illustration of &ome mighty fact, it was full of suggestion. I gazed at it for a long time, and then turned to the bookcase. Was the book from which it had been taken there 1 I eagerly hoped so. For, ignorant as I may seem to you, I did not know the picture or the incident it repre- sented ; and I was anxious to know both. For Mr. Barrows was not the man to disfigure a work of art by covering it with a coarse print like this unless he had a motive ; and how could even a suspicion of that motive be mine, without a full knowledge of just what this picture implied? But though I looked from end to end of the various shelves before me, I did not succeed in finding the volume from which this engraving had been taken. Large books were there in plenty, but none of the exact size of the print I held in my hand. I own I was disappointed, and turned away from the bookcase at last with a feeling of having been baffled on the verge of some very interesting discovery, 118 The Green Envelope. 119 The theory advanced with so much assurance by Mrs. Simpson had not met with much credence on my part. I believed her facts, but not the conclusions she drew from them. Nothing she had related to me convinced me that Mr. Barrows was in any way insane ; nor could I imagine for a moment that he could be so without the knowledge of Ada, if not of his associates and friends. At the same time I was becoming more and more assured in my own mind that his death was the result of his own act, and, had it not been for the difficulty of imagining a reason for it, could have retired to rest that night with a feeling of real security in the justness of a conclusion that so exonerated the man I loved. As it was, that secret doubt still remai.ied like a cloud over my hopes, a doubt which I had promised my«3elf should be entirely removed before I allowed my partiality for Mr. Pollard to take upon itself the character of partisanship. I therefore continued my explorations through the room. Mr. Barrows' desk presented to me the greatest attraction of any thing there ; one that was entirely of the imagination, of course, since nothing could have induced me to open it, notwith- standing that every key stood in its lock, and one of the drawers was pulled a little way out. Only tne law hjid a right to violate his papers ; and hard as it was to deny myself a search into what was possibly the truest exponent of his character, I resolutely did so, consoling myself with the thought that it' any open explana- tion of his secret had been in these drawers it would have been produced at the inquest. As for his books I felt no such scruples. But then, what could his books tell me 1 Nothing, save that he was a wide student and loved the delicate and imaginative in literature. Besides, I had glanced at many of the volumes, in my search after the one which had held the engraving. Yet I did pause a minutOj and run my eye along the shelves, vaguely conscious, perhaps, that often in the most out-of-the-way corners lurks the secret object for which we are so carefully seeking. But I saw nothing to detain me, and after one brief glance at a strong and spirited statuette that adorned the top shelf, I hurried on to a small table upon which I thought I saw a photographic album. I was not mistaken ; and it was with considerable interest I took it up and begau to run over its pages in search for that 1^1 U It e * K-r 120 The Mill Mystery. picture of Ada which I felt ought to be there. And which was there ; but which I scarcely looked at twice, so much was my attention attracted by an envelope that fell out from between the leaves as I eagerly turned them over. That envelope, with its simple direction, " Mis3 Ada Reynolds, Monroe Street, S ," made an era in my history. For I no sooner perceived it than I felt confident of having seen it or its like before ; and presently, with almost the force of an electric shock, I recollected the letter which I had brought Ada the afternoon of the day she died, and which, as my startled conscience now told me, had not only never been given her, but had not been so much as seen by me since, though all her belongings had passed into my hands, and the table where I had flung it had been emptied of its contents more than once. That letter and this empty envelope were, in style, hand- writing, and direction, facsimiles. It had, therefore, come from Mr. Barrows ; a most significant fact, and one which I had no sooner realized than I was seized by the most intense e »:citement, and might have done some wild and foolish thing, had not the lateness of the hour restrained me, and kept my passionate hopes and fears within their proper bounds. As it was, I found myself obliged to take several turns up and down the room, and even to open the window for a breath of fresh air, before I could face the subject with any calmness, or ask myself what had become of this letter, with any hope of receiving a rational reply. That in the startling and tragic events of that day it had been overlooked and forgotten, I did not wonder. But that it should have escaped my notice afterwards, or if mine, that of the land- lady who took charge of the room in my absence, was what I could not understand. As far as I could remember, I left the letter lying in \)lain view on the table. Why, then, had not some one seen and produced it % Could it be that some one more in- terested than I knew had stolen it 1 Or was the landlady of my former home alone to blame for its being lost or mislaid '{ Had it been daylight I should have at once gone down to my former boarding-place to inquire ; but as it was ton o'clock at night, I could only satisfy my impatience by going carefully over the incidents of that memorable day, in the hope of rousing some memory which would lead to an elucidation of this new mystery. First, then, I distinctly recollected receiving the letter from the postman. I had met him at the foot of the steps as I came hom(^ -^4: t • lad not some irefully over H The Oreen Envelope. 121 from my unsuccessful search for employment, and he had handed me the letter, simply saying : " For Miss Reynolds." I scarcely looked at it, certainly gave it no thought, for we had been together but a week, and I had as yet taken no interest in her concerns. So mechanical, indeed, had been my whole action in the matter, that I doubt if the sight of Mr. Barrows' writing alone, even though it had been used in transcribing her name, would have served to recall the incident to my mind. But the shade of tbe envelope — it was of a peculiar greenish tint — gave that un- conscious spur to the memory which was needed to bring back the very look of the writing which had been on the letter I had so carelessly handled ; and I found, as others have found before me, that there is no real forgetf ulness in this world ; that the most superficial glance may serve to imprint images upon the mind, which only await time and occasion to reappear before us with startling distinctness. My entrance into my own room, my finding it empty, and the consequent flinging of the letter down on the table, all came back to me with the utmost clearness ; even the fact that the letter fell face downwards and that I did not stop to turn it over. But be- yond that all was blank to me up to the moment when I found myself confronting Ada standing with her hand on her heart in that sudden spasm of pain which had been the too sure precursor of her rapidly approaching uoom. But wait ! Where was I standing when I first became con- scious of her presence in the room? Why, in the window, of course. I remembered now just how hot the afternoon sun looked to me as I stared at the white walls of the cottage over the way. And she — where was she 1 — between me and the table ? Yes ! She had, therefore, passed by the letter, and might have picked it up, might even have opened it, and read it beforo the spell of my revery was broken, and I turned to find her standing there before my eyes. Her pallor, the evident distress under which she was laboring, even the sudden pain which had attacked her heart, might thus be accounted for, and what I had always supposed to be a purely physical attack prove to be the result of a mental and moral shock. But, no. Had she opened ai. 1 read the letter it would have been found there ; or if not there, at least upon her person after death. Besides, her whole conduct between the mo- ment I facpd her and that of the alarm in the street below pre^ ' iii M.[ ■v 122 The Mill Mystery. eluded the idea that anything of importance to her and her love had occurred to break her faith in the future and the man to whose care she was pledged. Could I not remember the happy smile which accompanied her offer of assistance and home to me 1 And was there any thing but hope and trust in the tone with which she had designated her lover as being the best and noblest man in town ? No ; if she had read his communication and after- wards disposed of it in some way I did not observe, then it was not of the nature I suspected ^ but an ordinary letter, similar in character to others she had received, foretelling nothing, and only valuable in the elucidation of the mystery before me from the fact of its offering proof presumptive that he did not anticipate death, or at all events did not meditate it. An important enough fact to establish, certainly ; but it was not the fact in which I had come to believe, and so I found it diffi- cult to give it a place in my mind, or even to entertain the pos- sibility of Ada's having seen the letter at all, I preferred rather to indulge in all sorts of wild conjectures, having the landlady, the servant, even Dr. Farnhara, at their base ; and it was not till I was visited by sotie mad thought of Rhoda Colwell's possible con- nivance in the disappearance of this important bit of evidence, that I realized the enormity of my selfish folly, and endeavored to put an end to its further indulgence by preparing stoically for bed. But sleep, which would have been so welcome, did not come ; and after a long and weary night, I arose in any thing but a re- freshed state, to meet the exigencies of what might possibly prove to be a most important day. The first thing to be done was undoubtedly to visit my old home and interview its landlady. If nothing came of that, to hunt up the nurse, Mrs. Gannon, whom, as you will remember, I had left in charf^e of my poor Ada's remains when sudden duty in the shape of Dr. Farnham carried me away to the bedside of Mrs. Pollard ; and if this also came to naught, to burst the bonds of secrecy which I had maintained, and by taking this same Dr. Farnham into my confidence obtain at least an adviser who would relieve me, if only partially, from the weight of responsibility, which I now felt to be pressing rather too heavily upon my strength. But though I carried oat this programme as far as seeking for and procuring an interview with Mrs. Gannon at her place of The Green Envelope. 123 nursing, I did not succeed in obtaining the least clew to the fate of this mysterioubly lost letter. Neither of tha women mentioned had seen it, nor was it really believed by them to have been on the table when they arranged the room after my Ada's peaceful death. Yet even to this they could not swear, nor would the landlady admit but that it might still have been lying there when they came to carry Ada away, though she would say that it could not have been anywhere in view the next day, for she had thor- oughly cleaned and tidied up the room herself ; and as in doing this she had been obliged to shift every article off the table on to the bed and back again, she must not only have seen, but handled the letter twice ; and this she was morally certain she did not do. I was therefore in as great perplexity as ever, and was seriously meditating a visit to Dr. Farnham, when I bethought me of making one final experiment before resorting to this last and not altogether welcome alternative. This was to examine every thing which had been on the table, iu the hope of discovering in some out-of-the-way receptacle the missing letter for which I had such need. To be sure it was an effort that promised little, there having been but few articles on the table capable of concealing even such a small object as this I was in search of ; but when one is at their wit's ends, they do not stop to discuss probabilities, or even to weigh in too nice a scale the prospect of success. Recalling, therefore, just what had been on the table, I went to the trunk in which these articles were packed, and laid them out one by one on the floor. They were as follows : — A work-basket of Ada's ; a box of writing-paper ; a copy of Harper's Magazine ; an atlas ; and two volumes of poetry, one belonging to Ada and one to me. A single glance into the work-basket was sufficient, also into the box of stationery. But the atlas was well shaken, and the magazine carefully looked through, before I decided it was not in them. As for the two books of poetry, I disdained them so com- pletely, I was about to toss them back unopened, when there'came upon me a disposition to be thorough, and I looked at them both, only to find snugly ensconced in my own little copy of Mrs. Browning the long-sought and despaired-of letter, with its tell-tale green envelope unbroken, and its contents, in so far as I could see, unviolated and undisturbed. ^ !■■ it CHAPTER XVII. DAVID BARR0V7S. I have lived loD' .^ ^gh.— Macbeth. BEFORE I proceeded to open this letter, I reasoned some time with myself. The will by which I had come into pos- session of Ada's effects was, as I knew, informal and possibly il- legal. But it was the expression of her wishes, and there had been no one to dispute them or question my right to the inherit- ance she had so innocently bequeathed me. At the same time I felt a hesitation about opening this letter, as I had about using her money ; and it was not till I remembered the trust she had reposed in me, and the promise I had given her to support Mr. Barrows' good name before the world, that I summed up sufficient determination to break its seal. My duty once clear to me, how- ever, I no longer hesitated. This is the result : September 23rd. — Evening. My Beloved Ada : — Could I by any means mitigate the blow which I am forced to deal you, believe me it should be done. But no words can prepare you for the terrible fact I am about to reveal, and I think from what I know of you, and of your delicate but strong soul, that in a matter of life and death like this the most direct lan- guage is what you would choose me to employ. Know then, dearest of all women, that a duty I dare not fly from condemns me to death ; that the love we have cherished, the hopes in which we have indulged, can have no fulfilment in this world, but must be yielded as a sacrifice to the inexorable claim of conscience and that ideal of right which has been mine since I took upon myself the lofty vocation of a Christian minister. you, my people, my own self even, have thought n^e an honeet 1?4 David Barrows. 125 e an hpneet man. God knows I meant to be, even to the point of requiring no- thing from others I was not willing to give myself. But our best friends do not ^'now us ; we do not know ourselves. When the hour of trial came, and p sudden oall was made upon my faith and honor, I failed to sustain myself, failed ignominiously, showing myself to be no stronger than the weakest of my flock — ay, than the child that flies before a shadow because it is black, and he does not or will not see that it is his father's form that casts it. Such lapses on the part of men professing to lead others demand heavy penalties. I feared to lose my life, therefore my life must go. N othing short of this would reinstate me in my own eyes, or give to my repentance that stern and absolute quality which the nature of my sin imperatively demands. That I must involve you in my sorrow and destruction is the bit- terest drop in my cup. But dainty and flower-like as you are, you have a great nature, and would not hold me back from an act necessary to the welfare and honor of my eternal soul. I see you rather urging me on, giving me your last kiss, and smiling upon me with your own inspiring smile. So sure am I of this, that I can bear not to see you again ; bear to walk for the last time by your house, leaving only my blessing in the air. For it is a part of my doom that I may not see you ; since, were I to find myself in your presence, I could scarcely forbear telling you whither I was going, and that no man must know till all has been accomplished. I go, then, without other farewell than these poor words can give you. Be strong, and bear my loss as many a noble woman before you has borne the wreck of all her hopes. When I am found — as some day I shall be — tell my people I died in the Christian faith, and for the simple reason that my honor as a man and a minister demanded it. If they love me they will take my word for it ; but if questions should arise, and a fuller knowledge of ray fato and the reasons which led me to such an act should in your judgment seem to be required, then go to my desk, and, in a secret drawer let into the back, you will find a de- tailed confession which will answer every inquiry and set straight any false or unworthy suspicions that may arise. But heed these words and mark them well: Till such a need should arise, the manuscript is to be kept inviolate even from you ; and no matter what the seeming need, or by what love or anxiety you may be driven, touch not that desk nor drawer till ten days have elapsed, or I shall think you love my body more than me, and the enjoyment of temporal comfort to the eternal weight of glory which is laid up for those who hold out steadfast to the end. And ^ow, my dear, my dear, with all the affection of my poor, weak, ^ hi f. !t I fJ ^r-^ 126 The Mill Mystery. erring heart, I hold out arms of love towards you. Farewell for n short space. When we meet again may it be on equal terms once more, the heavy sin blotted out, the grievous wrong expiated. Till then, God bless you. David. Do not wonder at my revealing nothing of this in our late interviews. You were so happy, I dared not drop a shadow one day sooner than was necessary into your young life. Besides, my struggle was djirk and secret, and could brook no eye upon it save that of the eternal God. I IT * CHAPTER XVIII. A LAST REQUEST. 'T is she That tempera him to this extremity. — Richard in. THE night had fallen. I was in a strange and awe-struck mood. The manuscript, which after some difficulty I had succeeded in finding, lay before me unopened. A feeling as of an invisible presence was in the air. I hesitated to turn the page, writ- ten, as I already felt, with the life-blood of the man in whose mys- terious doom the happiness of my own life had become entangled. Waiting for courage, I glanced mechanically about the room. How strangely I had been led in this affair ! How from the first I seemed to have been picked out and appointed for the solving of this mystery, till now I sat in the very room, at the very desk, in front of the very words, of its victim. I thought of Dwight Pollard struggling with his fate, and unconscious that in a few minutes the secret of Mr. Barrows' death would be known ; of Rhoda Colwell, confident of her revenge and blind to the fact that I held in my hand what might possibly blunt her sharpest weapon, and make her most vindictive effort useless. Then each and every consideration of a purely personal nature vanished, and I thought only of the grand and tortured soul of him upon whose solemn and awesome history I was about to enter. Was it, as his letter seemed to imply, a martyr's story ? I looked at the engraving of Cranmer, which had been a puzzle to me a few days before, and understanding it now, gathered fortitude by what it seemed to suggest, and hastily unrolled the manuscript. This is what I read : *' He that toould save his life shall lose it." 127 M- 1 I U '- 128 The Mill Myntery, » In order that the following tale of sin and its expiation may be understood, I must give a few words to the motives and hopes under which I entered the ministry. I am a believer in the sacred character of my profession, and the absolute and unqualified devotion of those embracing it to tlie aims and purposes of the Christian religion. Though converted, as it is called, in my sixteenth year, I cannot rcrr.omber the time my pulse did not beat with appreciation of those noble souls who had sacrificed every joy and comfort of this temporal life for the sake of their faith and the glory of God. I delighted in Fox's ** Book of Martyrs," and while I shuddered over its pages in a horror I did not wholly understar/l, I read them again and again, till there was not a saint whose life I did not know by heart, with just the death he died and the pangs he experienced. Such a mania did this become with me at one time that I grew visibly ill, and had to have the book taken away from me and more cheer- ful reading substituted in its stead. Feeling thus strongly in childhood, when half, if not all, my interest sprang from the fascination which horrors have upon the impressible mind, what were my emotions and longings when the real meaning of the Christian life was revealed to me, and I saw in this steadfastness of spirit unto death the triumph of the im- mortal soul over the weaknesses of the flesh and the terrors of a puT'ely transitory suflfering ! That the days for such display of firmness in the fiery furnace were over was almost a matter of regret to me in the first flush of my enthusiasm for the cause I had espoused. I wished so pro- foundly to show my love, and found all modern ways so tame in comparison to those which demanded the yielding up of one's very blood and life. Poor fool ! did I never think that those who are the bravest in imagination fail often the most lamentably when brought face to face with the doom they have invoked. I hav^e never been a robust man, and consequently have never entered much into those sports and exercises incident to youth and early manhood that show a man of what stuff he is made. I have lived in my books till I came to S , since which I have tried to live in the joys and sorrows of my fellow-beings. The gi eat rule of Christian living has seemed to me imperative. Love your neighbour as yourself, or, as I have always interpreted it, more than yourself. For a man, then, to sacrifice th?^t neigh- A Last Request. 120 hour to save himself from physical or mental diHtress, has always seemed to me not only the height of cowardice, but a direct denial of those truths upon which are founded the Christian's ultimate hope. As a man myself, I despise with my whole heart such weaklings ; as a Christian minister I denounce them. Nothing can excuse a soul for wavering in its duty because that duty is hard. It is the hard things we should take delight in facing ; otherwise we are babes and not men, and our faith a matter of expediency, and not that stern and immovable belief in God and His purposes which can alone please Deity and bring us into that immediate communion with His spirit which it should be the end and aim of every human soul to enjoy. Such are my principles. Let us see how I have illustrated them in the events of the last six weeks. On the sixteenth of August, five weeks ago today, I was called to the bedside of Samuel Pollard. He had been long sinking with an incurable disease, and now the end was at hand and my Christian oifices required. I was in the full tide of sermon-writing when the summons came, and I hesitated at first whether to follow the messenger at once or wait till the daylight had quite disap- peared, and with it my desire to place on paper the thoughts that were inspiring me with more than ordinary fervor. But a question to my own heart decided me. Not my sermon, but the secret disinclination I always felt to enter this special family, was what in reality held me back ; and this was a reason which, as you will have seen from the words I have already written, I could not countenance. I accordingly signified to the messenger that I would be with Mr. Pollard in a few moments, and putting away my papers, prepared to leave the room. There is a saying in the Bible to the effect that no man liveth to himself, nor dieth to himself. If in the course of this narrative I seem to show little consideration for the secrets of others, let this be at once my explanation and excuse : That only in the cause of truth do I speak at all ; and that in holding up before you the follies and wrong-doings of persons you know, I subject them to no heavier penalty than that which I have incurred through my own sin. I shall therefore neither gloss over nor suppress any fact bearing upon a full explanation of my fate ; and when I say I hesitated to go to Mr. Pollard because of my inherent dislike to enter his house, I will proceed to give as my reason for 1 t ».. 130 The Mill Mystery. this dislike, my unconrjuerable distrust of his wife, who, if a fine- looking and capable woman, is certainly one to be feared by every candid and truth-loving natura But, as I said before, I did not yield to the impulse I had with- in me to stay j and, merely stopping to cast a parting glance about my room — why, I do not know, for I could have had no premoni- tion of the fact that I was bidding good-by to the old life of liopo and peace forever — I hastened after the messenger whom I had sent on before me to Mr. Pollard's home. ^ Small occurrences sometimes make great impressions on the mind. As I was turning the corner at Halsey Street, the idiot boy Colwell came rushing by, and almost fell into my arms. I started back, shuddering, as if some calamity had befallen inc. An invincible repugnance to any thing deformed or half-witted has always been one of my weaknesses, and for him to liave touched me I hate myself as I write it, but I cannot think of it now without a chill in my veins and an almost unbearable feel- ing of physical contamination. Yet as 1 would be as just to my- self as I hope to be to others, I did not let this incident pass, without a struggle to conquer my lower nature. Standing still, I called the boy back, and deliberately, and with a reverential thought of the Christ, I laid my hand on his arm, and, sf^oping, kissed him. It cost me much, but I could never have passed that corner without doing it ; nor were I to live years on this earth, instead of a few short days, should I ever let another week go by without forcing my body into some such contact with what nature has afflicted and man contemned. The pallor which I therefore undoubtedly showed upon entering Mr. Pollard's room was owing to the memory of this incident rather than to any effect which the sight of the dying man had upon me. But before I had bean many minutes in the room, I found my pulse thrilling with new excitement and my manhood roused to repel a fresh influence most dangerous, if less repulsive, than the last. Let me see if I can make it plain to you. Mr. Pollard, whom we have all known as an excellent but somewhat weak man, lay with his face turned toward the room, and his gaze fixed with what I felt to be more than the common anxiety of the dying upon mine. At his side sat his wife, cold, formidable, alert, her l^and on his haad; her eye on hia eye, and all the icy and impla- A Lant RcqueM. 131 cable will set, as T could plaiMy boo, between him and any com- fort or encouragement I might endeavor to impart. She even allowed her large and commanding figure to usurp the place usually accorded me on such occasions, and when, after a futile ctt'ort or so on my part to break down the barrier of restraint that such a presence necessarily imposed, I arose from my seat at the foot of the bed, and, approaching closer, would havo leaned over her husband, but she put out her hand and imperatively waved me aside, remarking : ** The doctor says he must havo air." There are some persons whose looks and words are strangely controlling. Mrs. Pollard is one of these, and I natundly drew back. But a glance at Mr. Pollard's face made mo question it I was doing right in this. Such disappointment, such despair even, I had seldom seen expressed in a look ; and convinced that he had something of real purport to say to me, I turned towards his wife, and resolutely remarked : " The dying frequently have communications to make to which only their pastor's ear is welcome. Will you excuse me then, if I re(piest a moment's solitude with Mr. Pollard, that I may find out if his soul is at rest before I raise my prayers in his behalf ? " But, before I had finished, I saw that any such appeal would bo unavailing. If her immovable expression had not given me this assurance, the hopeless closing of his weak and fading eyes would havj sufficiently betrayed the fact. "I cannot leave Mr. Pollard," were the words with which she tempered her refusal. " If he has any communication to make, let him make it in my presence. I am his wife." And her hand pressed more firmly on his, and her eyes, which had not stirred from his face even when I addressed her, assumed a dark, if not threatening look, which gradually forced his to open and meet them. I felt that something must be done. " Mr. Pollard," said I, " is there anything you wish to impart to me before you die ? If so, speak up freely and with confi- dence, for I am here to do a friend and a pastor's duty by you, even to the point of fulfilling any request you may have to make, so it be only actuated by right feeling iUid judgment." and deter- minedly ignoring her quick move of astonishment, I pressed for- ward and bent over him, striving with what I felt to be a purely V N ,: 132 The Mill Mystery. righteous motive, to attract his glance from hers, which was slow- ly withering him away as if it were a basilisk's. And I succeeded. After an effort that brought the sweat out on his brow, he turned his look on mine, and, gathering strength from my expression, probably, gave me one eager and appealing glance, and thrust his left hand under his pillow. His wife, who saw everything, leaned forward with an uneasy gesture. " What have you there 1 " she asked. But he had already drawn forth a little book and placed it in my hand. " Only my old prayer-book," he faltered. " I felt as if I should like Mr. Barrows to have it." She gave him an incredulous stare, and allowed her glance to follow the book. I immediately put it in my pocket. " I shall take a great deal of pleasure in possessing it," I re- marked. " Read it," he murmured ; ** read it carefully." And a tone of relief was in his voice that seemed to alarm her greatly ; for she half rose to her feet and made a gesture to some one I did not see, after which she bent again towards the dying man and whispered in his ear. But, though her manner had all its wonted force, and her words, whatever they were, were lacking in neither earnestness nor pur pose^ he did not seem to be affected by them. For the first time in his life, perhaps, he rose superior to that insidious influence, and, nerved by the near approach of death, kept his gaze fixed on mine, and finally stammered : '* Will you do something else for me 1 " " I will," I began, and might have said more, but he turned from me and with sudden energy addressed his wife. ** Margaret," said he, " bring me my desk." Had a thunderbolt fallen at her feet, she could not have looked more astonished. I myself was somewhat surprised ; I had never heard that tone from him before. " My desk !" he cried again ; " I want it here." At this repetition of his request, uttered this time with all the vehemence of despair, Mrs. Pollard moved, though she did not rise. At the same moiaent a quick, soft step was heard, and through the gloom of the now rapidly darkening chamber I saw I* A Last Request. 133 Lch was bIow- tlieir younger son draw near and take his stand at the foot of the bbd. "I have but a few minutes," murmured the sick man. " Will you refuse to make them comfortable, Margaret 1 " " No, no," she answered hastily, guided as I could not but see by an almost imperceptible movement of her son's hand ; and ris- ing with a great show of compliance, she proceeded to the other end of the room. I at once took her place by the side of his pillow. *' Is there no word of comfort I can give you ? " said I, anxious for the soul thus tortured by earthly anxieties on tha very brink of the grave. But his mind, filled with one thought, refused to entertain any other. •* Pray God that my strength holdout," he whispered. " I have an act of reparation to make." Then, as his son made a move as if to advance, he caught my hand in his, and drew my ear down to his mouth. ''The book," he gasped; "keep it^safely — they mav try to take it away — don't " Bat here his son intervened with some word of warning ; and Mrs. Pollard, hurriedly approaching, laid the desk on the bed in such a way that I was compelled to draw back. But this did not seem to awaken in him any special distress. From the instant his eyes fell upon the desk, a feverish strength seemed to seize him, and looking up at me with something of his old brightness of look and manner, he asked to have it opened and its contents taken out. Naturally embarrassed at such a request, I turned to Mrs. Pollard. " It seems a strange thing for me to do," I began ; but a light- ning glance had already pasped between her and her son, and with the cold and haughty dignity for which she is remarkable, she calmly stopped me with a quiet wave of her hand. '•' The whims of the dying must be respected," she remarked, and reseated herself in her old place at his side. I at once proceeded to empty the desk. It contained mainly letters, and one legal-looking document, which I took to be his will. As I lifted this ouo, I saw mother and son both cast him a quick glance, as if they expected some move on his part. But though his hands trembled somewhat, he made no special sign of wishing to see or touch it, and at once I detected on their faces a 1 134 The Mill Mystery. look of surprise that soon took on the character of dismay, as with the lifting of the last paper from the desk he violently exclaimed : *' Now break in the bottom and take out the paper you will iind there. It is my last will and testament, and by e/ery sacred right you hold in this world, I charge you to carry it to Mr. Nic- hoUs, and see that no man nor woman touches it till you give it into his hands." " His will ! " echoed Mrs. Pollard, astonished. •' He don't know what he says. This is his will," she was pro- bably going to assert, for her hand was pointing to the legal-look- ing document I have before mentioned ; but a gesture from her son made her stop before the last '•vord was uttered. " He must be wandering in his mind," she declared. " We know of no will hidden away in his desk. Ah ! " The last exclamation was called forth by the sudden slipping into view of a folded paper from between the crevices of the desk. I had found the secret spring. The next instant the bottom fell out, and the paper slipt to the floor. I was quick to recover it. Had I not been, Mrs. Pollard would have had it in her grasp. As it was, our bands met, not without a shock, I fear, on either side. A gasp of intense suspense came from the bed. " Keep it," the dying eyes seemed to say ; and if miue spoke as plainly as his did, they answered with full as much meaning and force : '' I will." Guy Pollard and his mother looked at each other, then at the pocket into which I had already thrust the paper. The dying man followed their glances, and with a final exertion of strength, raised himself on his elbow. " My curse on him or her who seeks to step between me and the late reparation I have sought to make. Weaker than most men, I have submitted to your will, Margaret, up to this hour, but your reign is over at last, and — and " The passionate words died away, the feverish energy succumbed, and with one last look into my face, Samuel Pollard fell back upon his pillow, (^eadL CHAPTER XIX. A FATAL DELAY. I : Would'st thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thiae own esteem, Letting '* I dare not," wait upon " I would," Like the poor cat i' the adage ? —Macbeth. \ . HE was to all appearance immediately fori:;otten. As with mutual consent we all turned and faced each other, Mrs. Pollard with a stern, inexorable look in her dark eye, which, while it held me enchained, caused me to involuntarily lay my hand upon the document which I had hidden in my breast. She noticed the movement, and smiled darkly with a sidelong look at her son. The smile and look affected me strangely. In them I seemed to detect something deeper than hatred and baffled rage, and when in a moment later her son responded to her glance by (quietly withdrawing from the room, I felt such revolt against their secrecy that for a moment I was tempted to abandon an un- dertaking that promised to bring me in conflict with passions of so deep and unrelenting a nature. But the impression which the ^>ain and despair of my dead friend had made upon me was as yet too recent for me to yield to my first momentary apprehensions ; and summoning up what re- solution I possessed, I took my leave of Vjs. Pollard, and was hastening towards the door, when her voice, rising cold and clear, arrested me. *' You think, then, that it is your duty to carry this paper from the house, Mr. Barrows ? " " Yes, madam, I do," was my short reply. " In spite of my protest and that of my soal " "Yes, madam." 135 i ;; 13G The Mill Mystery. '* Then upon your head be the consequences ! " she exclaimed, and turned her back upon me with a look which went with me as I closed the door between us ; lending a gloom to the unlighted halls and sombre staircases that affected me almost with an im- pulse of fear. I dreaded crossing to where the stairs descended; I dreaded going down them into the darkness which I saw below. Not that I anticipated actual harm, but that I felt I was in the house of those who longed to see me the victim of it ; and ray imagination being more than usually alert, I even found myself fancying the secret tiiumph with which Guy Pollard would hail an incautious slip on my part, that would precipitate me from the top to the bottom of this treacherous staircase. That he was somewhere be- tween me and the front door, I felt certain. The deadly quiet behind and before me seemed to assure me of this ; and, ashamed as I was of the impulse that moved me, I could not prevent my- self from stepping cautiously as I prepared to descend, saying as some sort of excuse to myself : " He is capable of seeing me trip without assistance," and as my imagination continued its work : " He is even capable of putting out his foot to help forward such a catastrophe." And, indeed, I now think that if this simple plan had presented itself to his subtle mind, of stunning, if not disabling me, and thus making it possible for them to obtain his father's will without an open assult, he would not have hesitated to embrace it. But he evidently did not calculate, as I did, the chances of such an act, or perhaps he telt that I was likely to be too much upon my guard to fall a victim to this expedient, for I met no one as I advanced, and was well down the stairs and on my way to the front door, before I perceived any signs of life in the sombre house. Then a sudden glare of light across my path betrayed the fact that a door had been swung wide in a certain short passage that opened ahead of me ; and while 1 involuntarily stopped, a shadow creeping along the further wall of that passage warned me that some one — I could not doubt it to be Guy Pollard — had come out to meet me. The profound stillness, and the sudden pause which the shadow made as I inconsiderately stumbled in my hesitation, assured inc that I was right in attributing a sinister motive to this encounter. Naturally, therefore, I drew back, keeping my eyes upon the ( A Fatal Delay, 137 shadow. It did not move. Convinced nov^ that tho danger of some kind lay ahead of me, I looked behind and about me for Bome means of escaping from the house without passing by my half seen enemy. But none presented themselves. Either I must slink away into the kitchen region — a proceeding from which my whole manhood revolted, — or I must advance and face whatever evil awaited me. Desperation drove me to the latter course. Making one bound, I stood before the lighted passage. A slim, firm figure confronted me ; but it was not that of Guy, but of his older brother, D wight. The surprise of the shock, together vith a certain revelation which came to me at the same moment, and of which I will speak hereafter, greatly unnerved me. I had not been thinking of Dwight Pollard. Strange as it may seem, I had not even missed him from the bedside of his father. To see him, then, here and now, caused many thoughts to spring into my mind, foremost among which was the important one as to whether he was of a nature to lend himself to any scheme of violence. The quickness with which I decided to the contrary proved to me in what dif- ferent estimation I had always held him from what I had his mother and brother. It was . • \sequently no surprise to me when he leaned forward and spoke to me with consideration and force. I was only sur- prised at his words : "Don't stop, Mr. Barrows," said he. ''Go home at once; only"— and here he paused, listened, then proceeded with increased emphasis, ** don't go by the way of Orchard Street." And with- out waiting for my reply, he stepped back and noiselessly regained the apartment he had left, while I, in a confusion of emotions difficult to analyze at the moment, hastily accepted his advice, and withdrew from the house. The relief of breathing the fresh air again was indescribable. If I had not escaped the miasma and oppression of a prison, I certainly had left behind me influences of darkness and sinister suggestions which, in the light of the calm moonbeams that I found flooding the world without, had the effect upon me of a vanished horror. Only I was still haunted by that last phrase which I had heard uttered, " Don't go by the way of Orchard Street," an injunction which simply meant, " Don't go with that document to the lawyer's to-night." If 138 The Mill Mystery. Now was this order, given as it was by D wight Pollard, one of warning or of sample threat ? My good-will toward this especial member of the Pollard family inclined me to think it the former. There was danger, then, lurking for me somewhere on the road to Mr. NichoUs' house. Was it ray duty to encounter this danger 1 It appears to me not, especially as it was not necessary for me to acquit myself so instantly of the commission with which I had been entrusted. I accordingly proceeded directly home. i>ut once again in my familiar stuJy, I became conscious of a strong dissatisfaction with myself. Indeed, I may speak more for- cibly and say I was conscious of a loss of trust in my own manhood, which was at once so new and startling that it was as if a line had been drawn between my past and present. This was due to the discovery I had made at the moment I had confronted Dwight Pollard — a discovery so humiliating in its character that it had shaken me, body and soul. I had found in the light of that criti- cal instant that I, David Barrows, was a coward ! Yes, gloss it over as I would, the knowledge was deep in my mind that I lacked manhood's most virile attribute , that peril, real or imaginary, could awaken in me fear ; and that the paling cheek and trembling limbs of which I had been so bitterly conscious at that instant were but the outward signs of a weakness that extended deep down into ray soul. It was a revelation calculated to stagger any man, how much more then, one who had so relied upon hib moral powers as to take upon himselt the sacred name of minister. But this was not all. I had not only found myself to be a coward, but I had shown myself such to another's eyes. By the searching look which Dwight Pollard had given me before he spoke, and the quiet, half- disdainful curve which his lips took at the close of his scrutiny, I was convinced that he saw the defect in my nature, and despised me for it, even while he condescended to offer me the protection which my fears seemed to demand. Or — the thought could come now that I was at home, and had escaped the dangers lyin^' in wait for me on the road to my duty — he had made use of my weak- ness to gain his own ends. The carrying of that document to Mr. NichoUs meant loss of property to them all perhaps, and he had but taken means, consistent with his character, to insure the delay wbich his brother had possibly planned to gain in some more re- prehensible manner. And I had yielded to my fears and let his ^ A Fatal Delay. 139 irhich I had will have its way. I hated myself as I considered my own weak- ness, I could find no excuse either for my pusillanimity or for that procrastination of my duty into which it had betrayed me. I found I could not face my own scorn ; and, rising from my study- chair, I took my hat and went out. I had determined to make amends for my fault by going at once to Orchard Street. And I did ; but alas ! for the result ! The half-hour I had lost was fatal. To be sure I met with no adventure on my way, but I found Mr. Nicholls out. He had been summoned by a telegram to Boston, and had been absent from the house only fifteen minutes. I meditated following him to the station, but the whistle sounded just as I turned away from his door, and I knew I should be too late. Humiliated still further in ray own estimation, I went home to wait with what patience I could for the two or three days which must elapse before his return. Before I went to bed that night I opened the book which Mr. Pollard had given me, in the expectation of finding a letter in it, or, at least, some writing on the title-page or the blank pag^^s of the book. But I was disappointed in both regards. With the exception of some minute pencil marks scattered here and there along the text — indications, doubtless, of favorite passages — I per- ceived nothing in the volume to account for the extreme earnest- nass with which he had presented it. \- »., Tlie Old Mill un aks in araaze- "That I cannot do," Hhe returned. " Her veil hid hor featuroH too coniplotoly for me to see tlioin. 1 could not even tell lutr a^e, but 1 should Bay, from the way she walked, that .she was older than yon." A chill, wliich did not come entirely from the east wind then blowing, ran sharply through my veins. *1 thank you," said I, somewhat incoherently, and ran hastily upstairs. I had a presentiment as to the identity of this woman. At the door of my study I paused and looked hurriedly aiound. No signs of any disturbance met my eye. Crossing over to my desk, I surveyed the pajjers which I had left scattered somewhat loosely over it. They had been moved. I knew it by the position of the blotter, which I had left under a certain sheet of paper, and which now lay on top. Hot and cold at once, I went immediately to the spot where I had concealed Mr. Pollard's will. It was in my desk, but underneath a drawer instead of in it, and by this 8iin})le precaution, perhaps, I had saved it from destruction ; for I found it lying in its place undisturbed, though the hand which had crept so near its hidingplace was, as I felt certain, no other than that of Mrs. Pollard, searching for this very document. It gave me a shuddering sense of disquiet to think that the veil- ed figure of this portentous woman had glided over my floors, re- flected itself in my mirrors, and hung, dark and mysterious in its veiling drapery, over my desk and the papers which I had handled myself so lately. I was struck, too, by the immovable determination to compass her own ends at any and every risk, which was manifested by this incident ; and, wondering more and more as to what had been the nature of the offence for which Mr. Pollard sought to make repar- ation in his will, I only waited for a moment of leisure in order to make another effort at enlightenment by a second study of the prayer-book which my dying friend had placed so earnestly in my hands. It came, as I supposed, about eight o'clock that evening. The special duties of the day were done, and I knew of nothing else that demanded my attention. I therefore took the book from my pocket, where I hud fortunately kept it, and was on the point of opening its pages, when there came a ring at the door-bell below. As I have said before, my landlady was away. I consequently went to the door myself, where I was met by an unexpected visitor r 144 The Mill Mystery. in tho fihapc of tho idiot boy, Colwcll. Somewhat disconcortcd ;ii tho sight of a face so ropufi^nant to me, f was still iiioro thrown oil my balanco wlien I heard liis errand. I Jo had boen sent, lie s.iil, by a man who had boen thrown from his waggon on the north road, and was now lying in a dying condition inside the old mill, before ho was picked up. Would I come and see him 1 He liad but an honr or so to live, and wished veiy much for a ciorgynmn's consolation. It was a call any thing bnt agreeable to mo. I wai tired ; I was interested in tho attempt which I was about to muke to solve a mystery that was not altogether disconnected with my own per- sonal welfare, and — lot me acknowledge it, since events have proved I had reason to fear this spot— I did not like the old null. But I was far from conceiving what a wretched experience lay before me, nor did the fact that the unwelcome request cainr through the medium of an imbecile arouse any suspicion in my mind as to the truth of the message he brought. For, foolisli as he is in some regards, his reliability as an errand-boy is univer sally known, while his partiality for roaming, as well as for ex citements of all kinds, fully accounted for the fact of his being up^n the scene of accident. 1 had, then, nothing but my own disinclinations to contend with, and these, strong as they were, could not, at that time, and in the mood which my late experience had induced, long stand in the way of a duty so apparent. I consequently testified my willingness to go to the mill, and in a few minutes later set out for that spot with a mind cora))ara- tively free from disagreeable forebodings. But as we approached the mill, and I caught a glimpse of its frowning walls gloominj^ so darkly from out the cluster of trees that environed them, I own that a sensation akin to that which had boen awakened in me by Mrs. Pollard's threats, and tho portentous darkness of her sombre mansion, once again swept with its chilling effect over my nci ves. Shocked, disgusted with myself at the recurrence of a weakness for which I had so little sympathy, I crushed down the feelings I experienced, and advanced at once to the door. A tall and slim figure met me, clothed in some dark enveloping garment, and carry- ing a lantern. " The injured man is within," said he. Something in the voice made me look up. His face was entirely in shadow. i The Old Mill 145 face was entirely •' VVlio are you 1 " I asked. lie (lid not reply. " Let us go in," he said. A week before I would have refused to do this v/ithout know- ing more of my man. But the shame from which I had suU'ered for the last few days had made me so distrustful of myaeU' that I WHS ready to impute to cowardice even the most ordinary instinct of bt'lf-preservation. 1 accordingly followed the man, though with each step that I took I fell; my apprehensions increase. To pierce in this manner a depth of sombre darkness, with only the dim outline of an un- known man moving silently before me, was any thing but en- couraging in itself. Then the way was too long, and the spot we sought too far from the door. A really injured man would not be carried beyond the first room, I thought, and we had already taken steps enough to be half-way through the building. At last I felt that even cowardice was excusable under these circumstan- ces, and, putting out my hand, I touched the man before me on the shoulder. " Where are we goin":?" I demanded. He continued to move on without reply. - % " I shall follow you no longer if you do not speak," I cried again. *• This midnight journey through an old building ready to tall into ruins seems to me not only unpleasant but haz- ardous." Btill no answer. " I warned you," I said, and stopped, but the next moment I gave an almost frantic bound forward. A form had come up against me from behind, and I found that a man was following as closely upon my steps as I had been following those of the person who stalked before me. The thrill of this discovery will never be forgotten by me. For a moment I could not speak, and when I did, the sound of my voice only added to my terrors. " You have me in a trap," said I ; " who are you, and what are your intentions with me? " "We have you where we can reason with yon," exclaimed the voice of hiia who pressed against my back ; and at the sound of those gentlemanly tones with their underlying note of sarcasm, I understood that my hour had come. It was the voice and into- nation of Guy Pollard. \A \' i y CHAPTER XXI. THE VAT. Des.— Talk you of killing ? 0th.— Ay, I do. Dcs. — Then, heaven Have mercy on me ! — Othello. IQUIVEllED with shame, for I felt my heart sink. But there was no pause in the smooth, sarcastic tones behind n^^ "When a man persists in judging of his duty contrary to the dictates of reason^ he must expect restraint from those who understand his position better than he does himself." *' Then," quoth I, with suddenly acquired strength, '' I am to understand that the respectable family of Pollard finds itself will- ing to resort to the means and methods of highwaymen in order to compass its ends and teach me my duty. ' " You are," a determined voice returned. At that word, uttered as it was in a tone inexorable as fate, my last ray of hope went out. The voice was that of a woman. I however, made a strong effort for the preservation of my dig- nity and person. " And will Samuel Pollard's ^^Idest and best-beloved son, the kind hearted and honest D wight, lend himself to a scheme of com- mon fraud and violence 1 I asked. The reply came in his brother's most sarcastic tones. ^''Dwight has left us," he declared. " We have no need of honesty or kind- heartedness here. What we want for this business is an immov- able determination." Startled, I looked up. The lantern which had hitherto swung from the hand of my guide stood on the floor. By its light three things were visible. First, that we stood at the head of a stair- case descending into a depth of darkness which the eye could not 146 The Vat 147 pierce ; secondly, that in all the area about me but two persons stood ; and third, that of these two persons one of them was masked and clad in a long black garment, such as is worn at masquerade balls under the name ot a domino. Struck with an icy chill, I looked down again. Why had I allowed myself to be caught in such a trap. Why had 1 not followed Mr. Nicholls im- mediately to Boston when I heard that he was no longer in town 1 Or, better still, why had I not manufactured for myself a safe- guard in the form of a letter to that gentleman informing him of the important document which I held, and the danger in which it possibly stood from the family into whose toils I had now fallen ? I could have cursed myself for my dereliction. " David Barrows," came in imperative tones from the mask- ed figure, " will you tell us where this will is 1 " " No," I returned " Is it not on your person % " the inquisitorial voice pursued. " It is not," I answered, firmly, thankful that I spoke the truth in this. " It is in your rooms, then ; in your desk, perhaps ? ^ I remained silent. " Is it in your rooms ! " the indomitable woman proceeded. " You who have been there should know," I replied, feeling my courage rise, as I considered that they could not assail my honor, while my life without my secret would benefit them so little that it might be said to stand in no danger. "I do not understand you," the icy voice declared; while Guy, stepping forward, planted his hand firmly on my shoulder and said : " Wherever it is, it shall be delivered to our keeping to-night. We are in no mood for dallying. Either you will give us your solemn promise to obtain this will, and hand it over to us without delay and without scandal, or the free light of heaven is shut out from ycu forever. You shall never leave this mill." " But," I faltered, striving in vain to throw off the incubus of horror which his words invoked, " what good would my death do you 1 Could it put Mr. Pollard's will in your hands ? " '* Yes," was the brief and decided reply, "if i*i is anywhere in your rooms." It was a word that struck home. The will was in my rooms, and I already saw it, in my imagination, torn from its hiding- place by the unscrupulous band that held me. Hi 148 The Mill Mystery. Mastering my emotion with what spirit I could, I looked quickly about me. Was there no means of escape '< I saw noue. In the remote and solitary place which they had chosen for this desperate attempt, a cry would be but waste of breath, even if we were in that part of the mill which looked toward the road. Bub we were not ; on the contrary, I could see by the aid of the faint glimmer which the lantern sent forth, that the room in which we had halted was as far as possible from the front of the building, for its windows were obscured by the brush-wood which only grew against the back of the mill. To call out, then, would be folly, while to seek by any force or strategy to break away from the two relentless beings that controlled me could only end in failure, unless darkness would come to my aid aud hide my road of escape. But darkness could only come by the extinguishing of the lantern, and that it was impossible for me to effect ; for I was not stroii;,' enough to struggle in its direction with Guy PrDard, nor could J reach it by any stretch of foot or hand. The I'^iit must burn and I must stay there, unless — the thought came suddenly — I could take advantage of the flight of steps at the head of which I stood, and by a sudd a leap, gain the cellar, where I would stand a good chance of losing myself amid intricacies as little known to them as to myself. But to do this I must be free to move, and there was no shaking myself loose from the iron clutch that held me. " You see you are in our power," hissed the voice of the woman from between the motionless lips oi her black mask. " I see I am," I acknowledged, " but I also see that you are in that of God." And I looked severely towards her, only to drop my eyes again with an irrepressible shudder. For, lay it to my weakness or to the baleful influence which emanated from the whole ghostly place, there was something abso- lutely appalling in this draped and masked figure with its gleam ing eyes and cold, thin voice. " Shall we have what we want before your death or after '/ " proceeded Guy Pollard, with a calm but cold ignoring of my words that was more threatening than any rudeness. I did not answer at first, and his grip upon me tightened ; but next moment, from what motive I cannot say, it somewhat re- laxed ; and, startled with the hope of freedom, I exclaimed with a vehemence fck- which my former speech must have little pre- pared them : The Vat 149 " You shall not have it at all. I cannot break my word with your father, and I will not stay here to be threatened and killed ;" and making a sudden movement, I slipped from his grasp, and plunged down the steps into the darkness below. But, scarcely had my feet touched the cellar floor, before I heard the warning cry shrill out from above : " Take care ! There is an open vat before you. If you fall into that, we shall be free of your interference without lifting a hand." An open vat I I had heard of the vats in the old mill's cellar. Instinctively recoiling, I stood still, not knowing whether to ad- vance or retreat. At the same moment I heard the sound of steps descending the stairs. " So you think this a better place for decision than the floor above ? " exclaimed Guy Pollard, drawing up by my side. ** Well, I am not sure but you are right," he added ; and I saw by the light of the lantern which his companion now brought down the stairs, the cold glimmer of a smile cross his thin lips and shine for a moment from his implacable eyes. Not knowing what he meant, I glanced anxiously about, and shrank with dismay as I discerned the black hole of the vat he had mentioned, yawning within three feet of my side. Was it a dream, my presence in this fearful spot ! I looked at the long stretch of arches before me glooming away into the darkness beyond us, and felt the chill of a nameless horror settle upon my spirit. Was it because I knew those circles of blackness held many an- other such pit of doom as that into which I had so nearly stum- bled ? Or was it that the grisly aspect of the scene woke within me that slumbering demon of the imagination which is the bane of natures like mine. Whatever it was, I felt the full force of my position, and scarce- ly cared whether my voice trembled or not as I replied : " You surely have me in your hands : but that does not mean that it is I who must make a decision. If I understand the situa- tion, it is for you to say whether you will be murderers or not." " Then you do not intend to put us in possession of my father's will ? " " No," I murmured, and bowed my head for the blow I expect- ed from him. t" 150 The Mill Mystery. But he dealt me no blow. Instead of that he eyed me with a look which grew more and more sinister as I met his glance with one which I meant should convey my indomitable resolution. At last he spoke again : ** I think you will reconsider your determination," he said, witlt a meaning that I did not even then fathom, and exchanging n quick glance with the silent figure at his right, he leaned towards me and — what happened 1 For a moment I could not tell, but soon, only too soon, I recognized by my stunned and bleeding body, by the closeness of the air I suddenly breathed, and by the circle of darkness that shut about me, and the still more distinct circle of light that glimmered above, that I had been pushed into the pit whose yawning mouth had but a few short moments before awakened in me such dismay. Aghast, almost mad with the horror of a fate so much more terrible than any I had anticipated, I strove to utter a cry ; but my tongue refused its office, and nothing but an inarUcu- late murmur rose from my nps. It was not piercing enough to ulet-^r the edge of the vat, and my soul sank with despair as I heard its fruitless gurgle and realized by the sound of departing steps, and the faint and fainter glimmer of the circle of light which at my first glance had shone quite brightly above my hideous prison- house, that my persecutors had done their worst and were now leaving me alone in my trap to perish. God ! what an instant it was 1 To speak, to shriek, to call, nay plead for aid, was but the natural outcome of the overwhelming anguish I felt, but the sound of steps had died out into an awful stillness, and the glimmering circle upon which my staring eyes were fixed had faded into a darkness so utter and complete, that had the earth been piled above my head, I could not have been more wholly hidden from the light. I had fallen on my knees, and desperate as I was, had made no attempt to rise. Not that I thought of prayer, unless my whole da?5ed and horrified being was a prayer. The consolation which I had offered to others did not seem to meet this case. Here was no death in the presence of friends and under the free light of heaven. This was a horror. The hand of God which could reach every other mortal, whatever their danger or doom, seemed to stop short at this gate of hell. I could not even imagine my soul escaping thence. I was buried ; body and soul, I was buried and The Vat 161 'h yet I was alive and knew that I must remain alive for days if not for weeks. I do not suppose that I remained in this frightful condition of absolute hopelessness for more than five minutes, but it seemed to me an eternity. If a drowning man can review his life in an in- stant, what was there not left for me to think and suffer in the lapse of those five horrible minutes 1 I was young when the un- scrupulous hand of this daring murderer pushed me into this pit ; I was old when with a thrill of joy such as passes over the body but once in a life time, I heard a voice issue from the darkness, saying severely : "David Barrows are you prepared for a decision now 1 " and realized that like the light which now sprang into full brilliance above my head, hope had come again into my life, and that I had to speak but a dozen words to have sunshine and liberty restored to me. The rush of emotion which this startling change brought was almost too much for my reason. Looking up into the sardonic face, I could now discern peering over the edge of the vat, I asked with a frantic impulse that left me no time for thought, if an im- mediate restoration to freedom would follow my compliance with his wishes and when he answered : " Yes," I beheld such a vision of sunshiny fields and a happy, love-lighted home, that my voice almost choked as I responded, that I did not think his father would have wished me to sacrifice my life or force a son of his iato the crime of murder, for the sake of any reparation which money could offer. And as I saw the face above me grow impati- ent, I told in desperate haste where I had concealed the will and how it could be obtained without arousing the suspicions of my neighbors. He seemed satisfied and hastily withdrew his face ; but soon returned and asked for the key of my house. I had it in my pocket and hurriedly pitched it up to him, when he again dis- appeared. " When shall I be released ? " I anxiously called out after him. But no answer came back, and presently the light began to fade as before, and the sound of steps grow fainter and fainter till silence and darkness again settled upon my dreadful prison-house. But this time I had hope to brighten me, and shutting my eyes, I waited patiently. But at last, as no change came and the silence and darkness remained unbroken, I became violently alarmed and K' I 152 The Mill Mystery. cried to myself : " Am I the victim of their treachery ? Have they obtained what they want and now am I to be left here to perish ? " The thought made my hair stand on end and had I not been a God-fearing man I should certainly have raised ray voice in curses upon my credulity and lack of courage. But before my passion could reach its height, hope shone again in the shape of returning light. Some one had entered the cellar and drawn near the edge of the vat ; but though I strained my gaze upward, no face met my view, and presently I heard a voice which was not that of Guy Pollard utter in tones of surprise and apprehension : " Where is the clergyman ] Guy said I should find him here in good condition 1 " The masked figure, who was doubtless the one addressed, must have answered with a gesture towards the hole in which I lay, for I heard him give vent to a horrified exclamation and then say in accents of regret and shame : *' Was it necessary ? " and after- wards : *' Are you sure he is not injured 1 " The answer, which I did not hear, seemed to satisfy him, for he said no more, and soon, too soon, walked away again, carrying the light and leaving me, as I now knew, with that ominous black figure for my watch and guardian, — a horror that lenc a double darkness to the situation which was only relieved now by the thought that Dwight Pollard's humanity was to be relied on, and that he would never wantonly leave me there to perish after the will had been discovered and destroyed. It was well that I had this confidence, for the time I now had to wait was long. But I lived it through and at last had the joy of hearing footsteps and the voice of Guy saying in a dry and satis- fied tone : " It is all right," after which the face of Dwight looked over the edge of the vat and he gave me the help which was needed to lift me out. I was a free man again. I had slipped from the gates of hell, and the world with all its joys and duties lay^before me bright and beautiful as love and hope could make it. Yet whether it was the gloom of the cellar in which we still lingered, or the baleful influence that emanated from the three persons in whose presence I once more stood, I felt a strange sinking at my heart and found myself looking back at the pit from which I had just escaped, The Vat 153 -e my passion find him here with a sensation of remorse, as if in its horrid depths I had loft or lost something which must create a void within me forever. My meditations in this regard were interrupted by the voice of " David Barrows," said he, " we hold the paper which was given you by my father." I bowed with a slight intimation of impaaence. " We have looked at it and it is as he said, his will. But it is not such a one as we feared, and to-morrow, or as soon as we can restore the seal, we shall return it to you for such disposition as your judgment suggests." I stared at him in an amazement that madp me forget my shame. " You will give it back ? " I repeated. " To-morrow," he laconically replied. ■ r ■ij CHAPTER XXII. THE CYPHER. Ah, my false heart, what hast thou done ? THIS is a story of fact ; it is also a story of mental struggle. I shall not, therefore, be considered too diffuse if I say that this unlooked-for ending to my unhappy adventure threw me into a strange turmoil of feeling, from which I had no rest until the next day came. That they should promise to restore the will, to ob- tain which they had resorted to measures almost criminal in their severity, awoke in me the greatest astonishment. What could it mean ? I waited to see the will before replying. It came, as Guy Pollard had promised, at noon of the follo\ ing day. It was in a new envelope, and was sealed just as it had been before'it left my possession. Had I not known into what unscrupu- lous hands it had fallen, I should have doubted if it had ever been opened. As it was, I was not only confident that it had been read from end to end, but fearful that it had been tampered with, and perhaps altered. To get it out of my hands, and if posible, my mind also, I carried it at once to Mr. Nicholls, who, I had ascertained that morning, had returned to town the day before. He received me with affability, but looked a little surprised when he learned my errand. " I was just going to call on the family," said he ; "I drew up Mr. Pollard's will myself, and " '* You drew up Mr. Pollard's will ? " I hastily interrupted. " You know, then, its contents, and can tell me " " Pardon me," he as hastily put in, " the family have the first right to a knowledge of what Mr. Pollard has done for them." I felt myself at a loss. To explain my rights and the great de- sire which I experienced to ascertain whether the tenor of the paper he now held coincided with that which he had submitted to Mr. Pollard for his signature, necessitated a full relation of facts 154 Tlte Cypher. 155 which I was not yet certain ought to be made public. For if the will had not oeen meddled with, and Mr. Pollard's wishes stood in no danger of being slighted or ignored, what else but a most un- happy scandal could accrue from the revelation which I should be forced to make 1 Then, my own part in the miserable affair. If not productive of actual evil, it was still something to blush for, and I had not yet reached that stage of repentance or humility which made it easy to show the world a weakness for which I had no pity nor sympathy myself. Yet to guard the interests with which I had been intrusted, it was absolutely necessary that the question which so much disturbed me should be answered. For, if any change had been made in this important paper by which the disposition of Mr. Pollard's i)roperty should be turned aside from the channel in which he had ordered it, I felt that no con- sifleration for the public welfare or my own good fame should hinder me from challenging its validity. My embarrassment evidently showed itself, for the acute lawyer, after a momentary scrutiny of my face, reniarked : "You say Mr. Pollard gave you this will to hand to me. Do you know the cause of this rather extraordinary proceeding, or have you any suspicion wfiy, in the event of his desiring me to have in charge a paper which ought to be safe enough in his own house, he chose his pastor for his messenger instead of one of his own sons ? " " Mr. NichoUs," I returned, with inward satisfaction for the op- portunity thus given me for reply, "the secrets which are confided to a clergyman are as sacred as those which are entrusted to a lawyer. I could not tell you my suspicions if I had any ; I can only state the facts. One thing, however, I will add. That owing to circumstances which I cannot explain, but greatly regret, this paper has been out of my hands for a short time, and in speaking as I did, I wished merely to state that it would be a satisfaction to me to know that no harm has befallen it, and that this is the very will in spirit and detail which you drew up and saw signed by Mr. Pollard." '* Oh," exclaimed the lawyer, '' if that is all, I can soon satisfy you." And tearing open the envelope, he ran his eye over the document and quietly nodded. " It is the same," he said. " There has been no meddling here." And feeling myself greatly relieved, I rose without further con- versation and hastily took my leave. h * 15(5 Tlve Mill Myste7vj. But when I came to think of it all in my own room, I found my equanimity was not yet fully rescored. A doubt of some kind re- mainec, and though, in consideratiou of the manifold duties that pressed upon me, I relentlessly put it aside, I could not help its lingering in my mind, darkening my pleasures, and throwing a cloud over my work and the operations of my mind. The sight which I now and then caugho of the Pollards did not tend to allay my anxiecies. There was satisfaction in their countenances, and in that of Guy, at least, a certain triumphant disdain which could only be partly explained by the victory which he had won over me through my fears. I awaited the pioving of the will with anxiety. If there were no seeming reparation made in it, I should cerl-ainly doubt its being the expression of Mr. Pollard's wishes. What was my surprise, then, when the will having been proved, I obtained permission to read it and found that it not only con- tained mention of reparation, but that this reparation was to be made to Margaret his wife. " For sums loaned ^ y her to me and lost, I desire to make repa- ration by an added bequest " so it read ; and I found myself nonplussed and thrown entirely out in all my calculations ai.d conjectures. The anxiety he had shown lest the will should fall into this very woman's hands, did not tally with this expression of justice and generosity, nor did the large sums which he had left to his three children show any of that distrust which his counten- ance had betrayed towards the one who was present with him at the time of his death. Could it be that he had given me the wrong paper or was he, as Mrs. Pollard had irtimated, not responsible for his actions and language at that time. I began to think the latter conjecture might be true, and was only hindered in the en- joyment of my old tranquillity by the remembrance of the fearful ordeal I had been subjected to in the mill, and the consideration which it brought of the fears and suspicions which must have existed to make the perpetration of such an outrage possible. But time, which dulls all things, soon began to affect my memory of that hideous nightmare, and with it my anxiety lest in my un- faithfulnobs to my trust, I had committed a wrong upon some unknown innocent. Life with its duties and love with its speedy proripect of marriage gradually pushed all unpleasant thoughts from my mind, and I was beginning to enjoy the full savor of my hap])y and honorable position again, when my serenity was again, and The Cyplier. 157 this time forever, destroyed by a certain revelation that wus acci- dentally made to me. The stoiy of it was this. I had taken by mistake with ino to n funeral the prayer-book with which Mr. Pollard had presented I was listening to the anthem which was being sung, and me. being in a nervous frame of mind, waa restlessly fingering the leaves of the book which I held in my hand, when my eye, running over the page that happened to open before me, caught sight of some of the marks with which the text was plentifully bestrewed. Mechanically I noticed the words under which they stood, and me«^hanically I began reading them, when, to my great astonish- ment and subsequent dismay, I perceived they made sense, in short had a connection which, when carried on from page to page of the book, revealed sentences which promised to extend themselves into ^ -i» THE KP with haHto. ami foiiiul Mary and JoHopii, and the babe lying In a nianRcr. And when thoy had seen it, thoy made known abroad the saying which was told them conorninj; this oliild. And all they that heard it won- dered at those things which wore told them by tho shepherds. But Mary kept all tlieso things, and pon- dered thorn in lier heart. And the shepherds return- ed, glorifying and praising God for all the tilings that they had heard ana seen, as it was told unto them. And when eight days were accomplished for the cir- cumcising of the child, his name was called JESUS, whl(,'h was so named of the angel before hi; was tton- ceived in the womb. ^ The same Colkcf, Ejiislle, and Gosi)H shall serve J'or every day after, unto the, Epiphany. The Epiphany, Or the Manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles. THE COLLECT. OGOD, who by the lead- ing of a star didst manifest thy only-liogotten Son to the Cii utiles ; Mer- cifully grant that wc, who know thee now by faith, may after this life have the fruition of thy glorious God- head ; througli Jesus (Mirist our Liird. Amen. IPHANY. 81 THE El'ISTLE. Eph. lil. 1. FOK this cause, I Paul, tho prison.. .- of Jesus '•hrist for you Gentiles; if ye have heard of the (lis- pensation of the grace of God, which is given me to you-ward : How that by revelation he lunde V'-own luito me the uiystci y las I wrote afore jn _few words, whereby , when yo read , jw Huty underst.ino iuy know- ledge in the mystery of Christ) whrTT in other ages was not tuade known unto the sons of men, as it Is now reveiiled unto his holy Apostles and Prophets by the Spirit; that the Gen- tiles should b(! f ellow-heirs , and of the sauu; body, and partakers of his promise In Christ, by the Gospel : whereof I was made a min- ister, according to the gift of the gnice of God given imto nio by the effectual working of his power. Un- to me, who am less than the least of all saints, is this grai'e given, that I should preach among the Gentiles this unseart^hablo riches of Christ : and to make all nu^n see what is the fellowship of the luys- tery, whicli from the be- ' L'ln'uing of the worlil hath ! been hid in God, who cre- : ated ail things by Jesus Christ: to the iuti'ut that 1 now unto the princlpalitii^s | ! and powers in heavenly j g^ ^ •{ Ml i, 158 The Mill Mystery. a complete communication. This is the page I happened iipoD, with its lines and dots. Note the result which accrues from reading the marjied words alone. It was but one of many, and you can imagine how difficult I found it to continue with the service and put the subject from my mind till the funeral was over and I could return to solitude and my third and final examination into the meaning of this mysteri- ous gift. You can also imagine my wonder when by following out tlio plan I have indicated, the subjoined sentences appeared, which, if somewhat incoherent at times — as could only be expected from the limited means at his command — certainly convey a decided mean- ing, especially after receiving the punctuation tand capital letters, which, after long study and some after-l'nowledge of affairs, I have ventured upon giving them : " My sin is ever before me. " Correct, lest thou bring me to nothing. " Do those things which are requisite and necessary for a pure and humble one, Grace by name, begotten by son, he born of tiist wife and not obedient to the law abroad, a prisoner. " Kevelation made known in few words whereby when ye read ye may understand the mystery which was made known unto the sons, fellow-heirs of Grace. " Go and search diligently for the young child. "The higher powers resist and are a terror to good works. " Do that which is good and thou shalt have praise, minister of God. " Wherefore ye must needs be subject for wrath, for they are attending continually upon this thing. " Render therefore to all their dues ; tribute to whom tribute ; honor to whom honor. "Two possessed of devils, exceeding fierce of the household, hope Grace may evermore be cant away. " They murmur against the good man of the house, and do not agree to mercifully defend against perils in the city an honest and good heart. " My will leave(s) heritage to Grace. " The devil is against me. " Behold a woman grievously vexed with lost sheep of the house. " Then came she, saying : * It is not mete to take the children's n T/ie Ci/pher. 159 accrues from broad and to cast it to the dogs. Bo unto us an oflfering named as bocometh saints. For this ye know, that no unclean i^rson hath any inheritance because of disobedience and fellowship with works of darknesa For it is a ahatne to speak of those things which are (lone to them in secret.' ♦' Beelzebub, the chief of devils, and sons cast out man ; taketh from him all wherein he trusteth and divideth the spoils against me. "To purge conscience, the new testament means redemption of the transgressions under first testament. " Said a devil : * Father, ye do dishonor me. Say ye know him not, thy son, and suffer that a notable i)risoner, his wife and child, were not called by thy name.' ' I will,' said I. But I deny all here. My soul is sorrowful unto deatli, as I bear false witness against them. "The hand that betray eth me is with me. " I appoint you to sift as wheat. " This must be accomplished, for the things concerning me have an end. " Words sent unto me out of prison, said : * Daughter weep(s). Beseech thee graciously to fetch home to thee my child in tribula- tion. For lo, the ungodly bend their bow and make ready their arrows within the quiver, that they may privily shoot at them which are true of heart. Show thy marvellous loving-kindness unto an undefiled soul forsaken on every side of mother and friendly neighbors. Make haste to deliver and save. I am clean forgotten, as a dead man out of mind. I am become as a broken vessel.' " Whilst I held my tongue, my bones consumed away daily. "I will inform thee and teach thee in the way wherein thou »haU go. " Blessed are folk chosen to inheritance ; the children of them that dwell under the king. " Poor Grac(e) come over the see (sea), unaware that I were sick. " Deliver my darling from the lions, so will I give thee thanks. " let not them that are mine enemies triumph that hate me. " They imagine deceitful words against them that are quiet in the land. " Child is in thy land. t ' 160 The Mill Mystery, ** Look after daughter among honorable women. House in City of the East Wind. ♦ «_ C-H-A-R-L-E-S - S-T-R-E-ET. " Child I have looked upon not. " I promised with my lips and spake with my mouth, but Gud turned his mercy upon me, and upon health hath sent forth hia voice, yea, and that a mighty voice. " I sink, and the deep waters drown me. " Mine adversaries hath broken my heart. " Let the things that should have been for them be for the poor prisoner's posterity. " Break down the carved work and search out my will. " Walk to table under southwest borders of room, take tlic wood that hath in it operations of the law, and cleave. " For my days are gone like a shadow, and I am withered as grass." * Number omitted for obvious reasons. CHAPTER XXIII. TOO LATE withered as What fear is this, which startles in our ears ? KoMEo AND Juliet. THE conclusion which I drew from these sentences after a close and repeated perusal of them was to this effect : That Mr. Pollard, instead of popsessing only two sons, as was generally supposed, had in reality been the father of three. That the eldest, born in all probability before Mr. Pollard's removal to this country (he was an Englishman by birth), had, by some act of violence or fraud, incurred the penalty of the law, and was even now serving out a term of imprisonment in his native land. That this son had a daughter innocent and virtuous, whom he desired to commit to the care of her grandfather ; that he had even sent her over here for that purpose, but that Mr. Pollard, taken down with the illness which afterwards ended in death, had not only tailed to be on hand to receive her, but that, surrounded and watched by his wife and sons, who, in their selfish pride, were de- termined to ignore all claims of kinship on the part of one they despised, he had not even had the chance to take such measures for her safety and happiness as his love and regard for her lonely and desolate position seemed to demand. That the will, whose con- cealment in his desk he had managed to describe, had been made in recompense for this neglect, and that by it she would receive that competence and acknowledgment of her rights which the hatred of her unscrupulous relatives would otherwise deny her. And this was the will I had weakly given up, and it was upon the head of this innocent child that the results of my weakness must fall. When I first recognized this fact I felt stupefied. That I, David Barrows, should be the cause of misery and loss to a guile- IGl M .H 162 The Mill Mystery. less and pure soul 1 I could not realize it, nor believe that con- sequences so serious and irremediable could follow upon an act into which I had been betrayed by mere cowardice. But soon, too soon, the matter became plain to me. I saw what I had done and was overwhelmed, for I could no longer doubt that the real will had been destroyed, and that the one which had been returned to me was a substituted one, perhaps the very same which I ha i seen among the papers of Mr. Pollard's desk. The result of my remorse was an immediate determmation on my part to search out the young girl, left in this remarkable man ner to my ca.'e, and by my efforts in her behalf do what I could to remedy the great evil which, through my instrumentality, had befallen her. The purpose was no sooner taken than I prepared to carry it out. S could hold no duty for me now paramount to this. I was a father and my child lingered solitary and uncared-for in a strange place. I took the first train the next morning for the *' city of the east- wind." The hour at which I arrived at number — Charles Street, was one of deep agitation to me, I had thought so continually upon my journey of the young waif I was seeking. Would she be the em- bodiment of ingeniousness which her grandfather had evidently believed her to be 1 Should I find her forgiving and tractable ; oi were the expectations I had formed false in their character and founded rather upon Mr. Pollard's wishes than any knowledge he had of her disposition and acquirements ? The house was, as far as I could judge from the exterior, of a most respectable character, and the lady who answered my some- what impatient summons was one of those neat and intelligent- looking persons who inspire confidence at first glanca To my inquiries as to whether there was living in her house a young English lady by the name of Grace — I did not like to ventui r upon that of Pollard, there being some phrases in the communication I have shown you which led me to think that Mr. Pollard had changed his name on coming to this country, — she gave me a look of such trouble and anxiety that I was instantly struck with dis- may. "Miss Merriaml" she exclaimed; then, as I bowed with seeming acquiescence, continued in a tone that conveyed still more disquiet than her face, " She was here ; but she is gone, sir ; a woman took her away." Too Late. 163 an act into A woman ! I must have grown pale, for she swung wide the door and asked me to come in. " We can talk better in the hall," she remarked, and pointed to a chair into which I half fell. ♦* I have a great interest in this young lady," I observed ; " in short, I am her guardian. Can you tell me the name of the person with whom she went away, or where she can be found now ? " " No sir," she answered, with the same expression of trouble. " The woman gave us no name nor address, and the young lady seemed too much frightened to speak. We have felt anxious ever since she went, sir ; for the letter she showed us from the captain of the ship which brought her over, told us to take great care of her. We did not know she had a guardian or we should not have let her go. The woman seemed very pleasant and paid all the bills, but " " But what 1 " I cried, too anxious to bear a moment's delay. " She did not lift her veil, and this seemed a suspicious circum- stance." Torn with apprehension and doubt, I staggered to my feet. " Tell me all about this woman," I demanded. ** Give me every detail you can remember. I have a dreadful fear that it is some one who should never have seen this child." " Well, sir, she came at about eleven in the morning " " What day 1 " I interrupted her to ask. " Thursday," she replied, •* a week ago yesterday." The very day after the will was returned to me. If she were the woman I feared, she has evidently lost no time. " She asked for Miss Merriam," the lady before me pursued, evidently greatly pitying my distress, " and as we knew.no reason why our young boarder should not receive visitors, we immediate- ly proceeded to call her down. But the woman, with a muttered excuse, said she would not trouble us ; that she knew the child well, and would go right up to her room if we would only tell her where it waa This we did and should have thought no more of the matter, if in a little while she had not re-appeared in the hall, and, inquiring the way to my room, told me that Miss Merriam had decided to leave my house ; that she had offered her a home with her, and that they were to go immediately. " I was somewhat taken aback by this, and inquired if I could not soe Miss M-^rriam. She answered * What for ? ' and when I f ; ! 164 The Mill Mystery, hiuted that money was owing me for her board, she drew out \wx pocket-book and paid me on the spot. I could say nothing afior this, * But are you a relative, ma'am 1 ' to which her quick and angry negative, hidden, however, next moment, by a suave ac- knowledgment of friendship, gave me my first feeling of alarm. But I did not dare to ask her any further questions, much as I de- sired to know who she was and where she was going to take the young girl. There was something in her manner that overawed me, at the same time it filled me with dread. But if I could not speak to her I meant to have some words with Miss Merriam b<3- fore she left the house. This the woman seemed to wish to pre- vent, for she stood close by me when the young girl came down, and when I stepped forward to say good-by, pushed me somewhat rudely aside and took Miss Merriam by the arm. " Come, my dear," she cried, and would have hurried her out without a word. But I would not have that. The sorrow and perplexity in Miss Merriam's face were too marked for me to let her depart in silence, So I persisted in speaking, and after saying how sorry I was to have her go, asked her if she would not leave her new address with me in case any letters should come for her. Her answer was a frightened look at her companion who immediately spoke for her. * I have told you,' said she, * that Miss Merriam goes home with me. It is not likely she will have any letters, but if she should, you can send them to the place mentioned on this card,' and she pulled a visiting card from her bag and gave it to me, after which she immediately went away, dragging Miss Merriam after her." " And you have that card ? " I cried. ** Why did you not show it to me at once ? " "O, sir," she responded with a sorrowful shake of her head, ''it was a fraud, a deception. The card was not hers but another per- son's, and its owner don't even know Miss Merriam." "How do you know this?" I asked. "Have you seen this other person ? " " Yes, sir, I had occasion to, for a letter did come for Miss Mer- riam only a short time after she left. So thinking it a good oppor- tunity to see where she had gone, I carried it to the address which was on the card given me, and found as I have told you that it was not the same lady at all who lived there, and that there was not only no Miss Merriam in the house but that her name was not even known there." Too Late. 165 " And you saw the lady herself? " "Yes, sir." ^ " And are you sure it was not the same as the one who was here ? " " Oh, yes ; she was short and stout and had a frank way of speaking, totally unlike that of the veiled woman." " And the latter ? How was she shaped ? You have not told me. ' I asked this in trembling tones. Though I was sure what the answer would be, I dreaded to have my fears confirmed. " Well, sir, she 'yas tall and had a full commanding figure, very handsome to look at. She was dressed all in grey and had a way of holding her head that made an ordinary sized woman like my- self feel very small and insignificant. Yet she was not agreeable in her appearance ; and I am sure that if I could have seen her face I should have disliked her still ^ore, though I do not doubt it was in keeping with her figure, and very handsome." I could have no doubts as to whom this described, yet I made cue final effort to prove my suspicions false. " You have given me the description of a person of some pre- tensions to gentility," I remarked, " yet from the first you have forborne to speak of her as a lady." " An involuntary expression of my distrust and dislike I sup- pose. Then her dress was very plain, and the veil she wore quite common." I thought of the dress and veil which my self designated "sister" had worn in the visit she paid to my rooms and wondered if they would not answer to the description of these. " What was the color of her veil 1" I inquired. " Dark blue." That was the color of the one which had been worn by my mysterious visitor, as I had found from subsequent questions put to my neighbor, and I could no longer have the least uncertainty as to who the woman was who had carried off Mr.JPolIard's grand- child. Sick at heart and fearing I scarcely knew what, 1 asked for the letter which had been left for Miss Merriam, and receiving it from the hand of this amiable woman in whom 1 appeared to Imve inspired as much confidence as her former visitor had alarm, I tore it open, and in my capacity of guardian read what it con- tained. Here it is : » :l 166 The Mill Mystery. My Deab Miss Mef aiam : The gentleman, in the hope of whose protection you came to this country, is dead. I am his son and naturally feel it incumbent upon me to look after your interests. I am therefore coming shortly to see you ; bnt till J do so, remembtr that you are not to receive any one who may call, no matter wbof. their name, sex, or apparent business. If you disobey me in this regaru you may do yourself a permanent in- jury. Wait till my card is brought you, and then judge for yourself whether I am a person in whom you can tiast. Hoping to find you in good health, and as happy as your bereaved condition will admit of, I remain sincerely yours, DwiGHT Gaylord Pollard. " Ah, he wrote a day too late ! " I involuntarily exclaimed ; then perceiving the iook of curiosity which this unguarded ex- pression had awakened on the face of my companion, folded the letter up and put it quietly in my pocket. "It is an unhappy piece of business," I now observed, " but I shall hope to find Miss Merriam very soon, and place her where she will be both safe and happy." And feeling that I ought to know something of the appearance and disposition of one I so fully intended to befriend, I inquired whether she was a pretty girl." The reply I received was almost enthusiastic. ** I do not know as you would call her pretty, sir, she is so pale and fragile ; but if her features are not regular nor her color good, she has something unusually attractive in her face, and I have than one gentleman here say, *Miss Merriam more IS heard lovely. "And her manners 1 " "Very modest, sir, and timid. She seems to have a secret sorrow, for I have often seen her eyes fill when she thought no one was looking at her." *' Do you know her history or connections 1 " "No, sir." " Then she never talked to you about herself 1 " " No, sir ; though so young, she was strangely like a woman in many things. An uncommonly sweet child, sir, an uncommonly sweet child." I felt the sting of a great reproach in my heart, and, anxious to^hidp the depth of my emotion, rose to leave. But the good Too Late. 167 woman, detaining me, inquired what she should do with Miss Merriam's trunk. " What," I exclaimed, " is that still here ] " " Yes, sir ; she took, as I noticed, a bag of some size with her, but she left her trunk. In the flurry of their departure I forgot to speak about it. I have expected^an expressman after it every (lay, but none has come. That is another reason why I have felt anxious." •' I do not woL ^er," I exclaimed. "Sometimes," she observed, " I have thought it was my duty to speak to the police about the matter ; it would be such a dread- ful thing if any harm had come to her." *' I will speak to the i»olice if necessary," said I. And (deter- mined ab I had never been before in my life, I left the house and y)roceeded directly to the depot, where I took the first train for S . ive a secret ®-? ^ ^/^^^^^^^^^^'S^^^.i^ CHAPTER XXIV. CONFRONTED. F't j,> up the access and passage to remorse ; i !l •>* no compunctious visitings of nature ;"«h«u.o my fell purpose, nor keep peace betw ' s utj e no compunctious visitings ot nature • my fell purpose, nor keep peace between •f'e-t and it !— Macbeth. BEING in the coafessional, I have not forborne to tell the worst of myself ; 1 will not, therefore, hesitate to tell the best When on that very afternoon I entered Mrs. Pollard's grounds, it was with a resolve to make her speak out, that had no element of weakness in ii Not her severest frown, nor that dia- bolical look from Ouy's eye, which had hitherto made me quail, should serve to turn me aside from my purpose, or thwart those interests of right and justice which I felt were so deeply at stake. If my own attempt, backed by the disclosures which had come to me through the prayer-book I had received from Mr. Pollard, should fail, then the law should take hold of the matter and wrench the truth from this seemingly respectable family, even at the risk of my own happiness and the consideration which I had always enjoyed in this town. The house, when I apjiroached it, struck me with an odd sense of change. I did not stop at the time to inquire why this was, but I have since concluded, in thinking over the subject, that the parlor curtains must have been drawn up, something which I do not remember ever having seen there before or since. The front door also was ajar, and when I rang the bell it was so speedily answered that I had hardly time to summon up the expression of determination which I felt would alone gain me admittance to tlu house. But my presence instead of seeming unwelcome, seemed to be almost expected by the servant who opened to me. He bowed, smiled, and that too, in almost a holiday fashion ; and when I would have asked for Mrs. Pollard, interrupted me by a 168 Confronted, 169 rriiueat to lay ofF my ovorcout in a side room, wliich \\v. courteously pointed out to me. There was something in this and in the wholo asocct of the place which astonished me greatly. If this sombre dwelling with its rich but dismally dark halls and mysterious recesses could b s^id to ever wear an air of cheer, the attempt certainly had be- u made to effect this to day. From the hand of the bronze figui. that capped the newel-post hung wreaths of smilax and a basket full of the most exquisite flowers ; while from a half-open door at my right came a streak of positive light, and the sound of several voices animated with some sentiment that was strangely out of accord with the solemn ecene to which this very room had so lately been a witness. Can they be having a reception ? I asked n^yself ; and almost ashamed of the surmite, even in the house of one so little respected, I, nevertheless, turned to t' .vil servant before me and remarked : "There is something going on here of Vi.'Vki i vvas ignorant, is Mrs, Pollard entertaining guests to-day " " 1 )id you not know, sir K " he inquire') I thought you ha»l been invited, perhaps ; W\m Pollard ' -^o'ng to be married this afternoon." Miss Pollard going to be married ! Could anything have been worse 1 Shocked, I drew back ; Miss Pollard was a beautiful giil and totally innocent, in as far as I knew, of any of the wrong which had certainly been perpetrated by some members of her family. It would never do to mortify her or to mar the pleasure of her wedding-day by any such scene as my errand probably in- volved. She must be saved sorrow even if her mother But at that instant the vague but pathetic form of another young girl flitted in imagination before my eyes, and I asked myself if I had not already done enough injury to the helpless and the weak, with- out putting off for another hour even that attempt at rescue, which the possibly perilous posi ion of Mr. Pollard's grandchild so im- peiatively demanded. As I thought this and remembered that the gentleman to whom Miss Pollard was engaged was an Englishman of lordly connections and great wealth, I felt my spirit harden and ray purpose take definite form. Turning, therefore, to the aervant before me I inquired if Mrs. Pollard was above or below ; and learning that she had not yet come down-stairs, I tore a leaf out of my note-book and wrote on it the following lines : 170 The Mill Mystery, 1 know your daughter is on the point of descending to her niarriai^o. I know also that you do not want to aee me. But the intcrosta of Mm Merriani demand that yon should do so, and that iujmediately. If you do not come, I shall instantly enter the parlor and tell the story totlm assembled guests which will somewhat shake your equanimity wlun you come to appear before them. My moral courage is not to bt' judged bv my physical, madam, and 1 shall surely do this thing. David Bahuows. The servant, who still lingered before me, took this note. " Give it to Mrs. Pollard," I requested. " Tell her it is upon a matter of pressing importance, but do not mention my name, it you please ; she will find it in the note." And seeinf» by the man's face that my wishes would be complied with, I took up my stand in a certain half-curtained recess and waited with loudly brnting heart for the issue. She came. I saw her when she first put foot on the s'airs, and notwithstanding my strong antipathy, I could not repress a certain feeling of admiration from mixing with the dread the least s'v^hi of her always occasioned me. Her form, which was of the finest, was clad in heavy black velvet, without a vestige of ornament to mar its sombre richness, and her hair, now verging towards gray, was piled up in masses on the top of her haughty head, adding inches to a height that in itself was almost queenly. But her face! and her cruel eye and the smile of her terrible lip. I grew cold as 1 saw her approach, but I did not move from my place or meditate the least change in the plan I had laid for her subjection. She stopped just two feet from where I stood, and without the least bend of her head or any gesture of gr2eting, looked at me. I bore it with quietude, and even answered glance with glance, until I saw her turn pale with the first hint of dismay which she had possibly ever betrayed ; then I bowed and waited for her tu speak. She did so with a hiss like a serpent. •* What does this mean 1 " she cried. *' What do you hope to gain from me, that you presume to write me such a letter on an occasion like this 1 " "Madam," I rejoined, "you are in haste, as so am I ; so, with- out expressing any opinion of the actions which have driven me to this step, I will merely say that I want but one thinj^ of you, but- that I want immediately, without hesitation and without delay. I allude to Miss Merriam's address, which you have, and which you must give me on the spot" Confronted. 171 8he shrank. This cold, confident, iniporious woman slirank, iind tliis expression of emotion, while it showed she was not ontirely without sensation, awoke within me a strange fear, since liow 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 / 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 i)leased 1(» 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." 1 took out my notebook 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 with- out a word. " There ! " she cried, hurriedly writing a line and passing the book back to me. " And now go ; our time for further conversa- tion will come later." But I did not stir. T then said : " Madam, this address is either a true or a false one. Which, I shall soon know. For upon leaving here, T shall proceed im- mediately to the telegraph-office, from which 1 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 mo, 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 re- marked. " There is no pit of darkness here ; besides I have read aloud the line she had given me and 172 The Mill Mystery. learned a lesson, madam ; and not death itself would deter nio 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 Mendlessohn'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 tljo words she had written, she wrote another number and name. " You will find she is there/' she cried, " and sinde I have complied with your desire, you will have no need to return here until you bring the young girl home." The emphasis she placed on the last word startled me. I looked at her and wondered if Modea wore such a countenance when she stabbed her children to the heart. But it flashed and was gnnn, and the next moment she had moved away from my nide and 1 had stepped to the door. As I opened it to pass out I cauglit 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. CHAPTER XXV. TlIK FINAL JII.OVV. Tt was u deadly Mow ! a blow like that Which swo(»i)iii^' unawarcH from out the night, Dashtirt a man from Rome high Hturlit peak Into a void of cold and hurrying wavcH. THE distrust which I felt for Mrs. Pollard w.'S so great that I was still uncertain as to whether sho had given me the right address. I therefore proceeded to carry out my original design and went at once to the telegraph-ofRce. The mesHage I sent was peremptory and in the course of half an hour this answer was returned : Person described, found. Condition critical. Come at onco. 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 tirst sight of it struck mo like death. Ood ! what was I about to encounter I What sort of a si)ot 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 otKcer, I folt something like an instantaneous relief, though I saw by his countenance that he had anything but good news to give me. " A/e you the gentleman who telegraphed from S asked. I bow( d, not feeling able to speak. " Relative or friend '? " he went on. "Friend," I managed to reply. Do you guess what has happened 1 " he inquired. 173 r'he 174 The Mill Mystery. " I dare not," 1 answered, with a fearful look about me on tli»' walls that more than confirmed my suspicious. " Miss Merriani 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 im mediately complied. " When we received your telegram, we sfMir a man here at once. Ho had some difficulty in entering and still more in finding the young lady, who was hidden in the most re- mote part of the house. But by perseverenco and some force he at last obtained BGtrance to her room where he found — pardon my abruptness, it «vill 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 couraj^e ; for though she died almost immediately upon his entrance, she had time to say that she had preferred death to the fate that threaten- ed her, and that no one would mourn her for ^e 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 1 " I asked. " Did she not say who brought her to this hell of !'.iells, or murmur even with lin dying breath, one word that wovdd guide us in fixing this crime upon the head of her who is guilty of it 1 " ** No," answered the officer, " no ; but you are right in thinking it was a woman, but what v/omnrr, the creature below evidently does not know." Feeling that the situation demanded thought, I composed my- self 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 ha\ o never seen her. I do not even know how loag 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 iliis city, and fearing that some terrible evil had befallen her, I tele graphed to the police to look her up." The '>^cer bowed. " The number of her boarding-place 1 " asked he. The Final Blow. 175 [)ut me on tlit» comr>oseil mv- I told him, and not waiting for any further ruirstions ih^manded if I might not seo the body of the young girl. He led me at once to the room in which it lay, and stood re- spectfully at the door while I went in alone. 'Phe night 1 Haw has never left me. Go where I will, I sec ever before mo that |)ure young face, with its weary look hnehed in the re))oso of death. It liannts me, it accuses me. It asks me where is the noMo woman- hood that might have blossomed from this sweet bud, had it not been for my pusillanimity and love of life ? IJut when I try to answer, I am stopped by that image of death, with its sealed lipa and closed eyes never to open again—- never, never, whatever my longing, my anguish, or my despair. But the worst shock was to come yot. Ah I left the room and went stumbling down the stairs, I was met by the oflicer and led again into the apartment I had first entered on the f];round-floor. *' 'rhere is some one here," he began, " whom you may like to (jiiestion." Thitiking 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 unconscions and business-like air proclaimed him to be a member of the force. " He^ name is Sophie Preston," the officer continued, motioning to the woman to throw up her veil. " She is a hanl character, and Home 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 1 had inwardly ac- cused of this wrong. " I should like to ask the woman " I commenced, but here my eyes fell u^jon her forui. 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 (juestion. •' Are you the person who took this young lady from her boarding place ? " I asked. 17G The Mill Myateiinj. ** Yes, sir," was llio leply, iitteretl in smooth but by no meuiiH cultivated tones. " And by what arts did you prevail upon this young and con- fiding creature to leave her comfortable home and go out into the btreets with yen ? " She did not speak, she smiled. O heaven 1 what dop^ihs of de- pravity 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. " 0, 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 allured 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 m«5 with my superior knowledge of all the mysteries which lay behind this pitiful tragedy, her meaning was evident. Whethei she had received payment suthcient for the punishment possibly awaiting her, or whether she had been frightened into assuming the res[)onsil)ility of another, she was evidently resolved to sustain her rule of abductress to tiie end. The look she gave me at the completion of her words intensified this conviction, and not feeling sufticiently sure of my duty to dis pute her at the j)iesent time, I took advantage of her determina- ijioii, and outwardly, i^ not inwardly, accepted her cj'iifession as true. I therefore retreated from her side, and being anxious to avoid the coroner, who was likely to enter at any minuto, I confined myself to asking a few leading questions, which being answered in a manner eeemingly frank, I professed myself satisfied with the result, and hastily withdrew. CHAPTER XXVI. A FELINE TOUCH. nto assumiiij,' ^ed to sustain Thou hast not half the power to do me harm, as I have to be hurt. — Othfllo. THE tumult in my mind and heart were great, but my tank 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 threateniM;^ to my l)oace as it was pitiful to my lieart. Mrs. Pollard was to be again interviewed, and to that formidable duty everything bowt d, 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 njy expectations, I found as little difl&culty in entering as I had before. Indeed, the servant was even more affable and obliging than he had b^^en in the alternoon, and persi:ted in showing me into a small room off the pnrlor, now empty of guests, and going at onco for Mrs. Pollard. " She will see you, sir, I am sure," was his last remark as ho \\eMt out of the door, *' for though she is very tireil, she told nte if yoii called to ask you to wait." 1 looked around on the sonu^what desolate scene that presented itHelf, and doubtingly shook my head. This seeming submission on the part of a woman so ind(.mitablo as she, meant sometlung. Kither she was thorouuhly frif^htened or (^Ise she meditated some treachery. In either case I needed all my seif-comnuuid. Happily, the scene I had just quitted was yet vividly injpret^seil upon my mind, and while it remaiue«l so, i felt as strong and unassailable as 1 had once felt weak and at the mercy of my ft ars. 1 did not have to wait Ion;:. Almost immediately upon the servant's call, Mrs. Pollard enteretl t!ie room and stood before me. Her first glance told me all. She was frightened. 177 178 The Mill Mystery. " 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 lea- Bonahle reouest, and if you do not ask too much you shall have it. I think it v/ill heal all wounds." My indignation flared up through all my horror and dismay. " Money ? " I cried, ♦* money 1 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 1 " she repeated. " Yes," 1 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 1 have reached you at lant," I broke in. " I thought God's justice would work." "I — I " She had to moisten hei lips before she could speak. " I don't understand what you mean. You say I lurod her, that is a lie. I never took her to this den of evil as you call ?.*!.*' " But you knew the strcsl and number of the l.oaw, and you gave her into the hand of the woman who did tAlic; Ic, diere." " I knew the number of the house but 1 did oor !cno^v it was a den of evil. I thought it was a rospectabla pLu**^ cheaper than the one she was in. I am sorry " " Madam," I interrupted, " you will find *t -.ifilcilv to make the world believe you so destitute of good ;er.f?e as not to know the character of the house :• vhich such a woman as you entrusttd her with would be likely \o Uad her. Besides, how will you ac- count for the fact tl-t. you y~'hn\' >\ Iress precisely like thai of this creature when you enticed Mi»d Merriam away from her home. Is there any jury who will believe it to be a coincidence, especinlly 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 weni for Miss Merriam ? The word of this woman whom you yourself call a creature ? " '♦ The word of the landladv, who described Miss Mcrriam's visi tor as tall and of a handsome figure, and my own eyesight, whicli ..ssu'od 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 lal ter, and found she could tell me nothing cf the A Feline Touch. 179 nder she lialf interior of the house where Miss Merriam boarded. She did not even know if the parlors were on the right or hft 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. 1 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 understand 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 inadverv.ently 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 b^•^, " what money yop. wanted. I do not ask that now, as the girl is dead and a clergyman is not supposed to take much interest in filthy lacro. But you want something, or you would not be here. Is it re- venge 1 It is a sentiment worthy of your cloth, and I can easi.y understand the desire you may have to indulge in it." " Madam," I cried, *' can you think of no other motive than a desire for veuganco or gain 1 Have you never heard of such a thing as justice 1 " " And do you intend " she whispered. " There will be an inquest held," I continr'^d. " I dhali !>c call- ed as a witness, and so doubtless will you. Are you pre;;..v/v I tc answer all and every question that will be put to yoii ? " " An inquest ? " Her face was quite ghaRtly now, And have you taken pains to publish abroad my conn< on with this girl ] " " Not yet.'' "She is known, however, to be a grandc A oi Mr. Pollard ] " ''No," said I. " What is known 1 " she inquired. " That she was Mr. Pollard's prot mv real history 1 " " Yes," I assented, "I." She advanced upon me with all the venom of her evil mature 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 here might do. 180 The Mill Mi Hery. ** I alone know her history and what she owes to you," I re- peated. She instantly fell back. Whether she understood me or not, she saw that her hold upon mo was gone, that the cowardice she had bean 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 shoiild sacrifice the living to her memory 1 " " Mrs. Pollard," I returned with equal intensity, " shall I tell you 1 She is the victim of my pusillanimity. That is what she is to me, and tiiat 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 whi(;h a true remorse can have upon a conscientious soul, pierce her cold heait at last 1 I cannot tell ; I onlv knew 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 tu her death, whatever her fate or fortune — she gave me an indescrib- able look, and in smothered tones remarked : " Your sympathies are with the innocent. That is well ; now come willj me, 1 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 )ur pity and regard." And before I realizfAi what she was doing, she had led me across the room to a window, from wliich she hastily j uUed aside the curtain that hun^ across it. The sight that :aet my eyes was like a dream of fairyland h t into the gl* nn aiu\ terror of a nightir>are. The window over- hutkeii the conservatory, and the latter beins lighted, a vision of tropicd verdure and burning blossoms flashed before us. But it was not u»>on this wcalt}i of light and color that the gaze rested in ihe fullest astonishment and delight. It was upon two figures seat'^d in the mid^t of those palm-trees and cacti, whose faces, turned the one towards the other, made a picture of love and joy that the coldest heart must feei, and the most stolid view with dtdight. It was tlu bridegroom and his bride, Mr. llnr rington and the beautiful Agnos Pollard. 1 felt tin; hand tliat !^y npon my arm tremble. " Have you the heart to dash such happiness as that?" mur- mured a voice in my ear. A Feline Tomelt. 181 o you," I re- me or not, she irdice she ha^med to deserve, *' in a don of contamination, amid surround- ings such as it will not do for me to mention even before her who L 182 The Mill Mystery. could mskkii use of them to destroy the innocence that trusted in her, there lies the dead body of one as pure, as lovely, and as at- tractive 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 » 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 Tol- lard's chi/d. 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 witli 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 1 undertake to consider the possibility of withholding the deuuncia tion which it "is in my power to make." " And you expect me to tell " she began. " Every thing," I finished, firmly. Sio smiled with a drawing in of her lips that was feline. Then 8l>e 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 husbanr'. had put her. It is a simple question. Was 1 not her grandfather's wife, and could I not be supposed to know what his desires were concerning her 1 " " A.nd the second fact V" She looked at me darkly. " You are veiry curious," said she. (( nitioi the J( built ffionej Nut il "Al A Feline Touch 'I. 183 asted ill id as at- , has not cted and as if she L of her I duntarily y the lifting le use of no oness as she id her. 'ou want to ^e the house Lon. Was 1 aed to know '« I am," said l. " Her baleful smile ropoated ilstdf. " You think by these confessions 1 will j)!ace myself in a posi- tion which will make it impossible for me to press my request. You do not understand me, sir. Had 1 committed ten times the evil I have done, that would not justify you in wantonly destroy- ing 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. " Leaving her to eat her lunch, I went to a place near by, where the womiiii 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 exjept just at the moment when I wanted to convince her 1 was her natural guardian, the woman had only to hold her tongue to make the de- ception successful. That she did thi is evident from the result. Is there any thing more you would like to know 1 " " Yes," I replied, inwardly quaking before this revelation of an inconceivable wickedness, yet steadily resolved to probe it to the very depths. " What did you hope by this deliberate plan of do. struction 1 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 j I am no murderess, whatever intimation you may make to that eHect. I am iiriip;y a mother." A moi^her i horrible ! I looked at her and recoiled. That such a one as thii? 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 1 It meant recog- nition, 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 sonsi" " What of them 1 " / 184 The Mill Mystery. " Had they no claim upon your consiiloratiou. When you plunged them into this aViyss of greed and deceit did no phantom of their lost manhood rise and confront you with an unanswerahlc reproach 1 " But nhe remained unmoved. " My sous arc men ; they can take care ot themselves." " But Dwight " Her self poEsessiua vanished. •' Hush 1 " 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 span- inodic clutch of her hand which showed she spoke involuntarily. 1 was moved at this. I l)e','an 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 ho returns your mistrust" She almost tore it out of my hands. " When was this letter received 1 " she usked, reading it with burning eyes and writhing lips. " The day after Miss Grace left her homo." *♦ Then she never saw it 1 " " No." " Who has seen it 1 " ** Myself and you." "No one elsel " " 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 coroner. It is known that I took it in charge." " I might bettor have burnt it," she hissed. " Not 60, I should then have had to explain its loss." Her old fear came back into her eyes. " Now 1 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." the A Feline Touch, 185 •* 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 strugj^les 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 iMMther consideration nor mercy. What leniency I then show will he for your daughter alone, who, in so'far its I can see, is innocent iind undeserving of t!i3 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 iho 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 despuir overtake you. I do not know when, and I do not know by what means, but it will be l)itter when it comes, and the hand of man will not be able to save you >» Ihit it was as if T had not spoken. All she seemed to hear, all, :it least, that she paid the least attention to, was the promise 1 had inaih^ •' You are decided, then, upon secrecy ? " she asked. "1 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 jterscm ? " •' Hy telling a portion of the truth. I shall say that my atten- li'iu was called to her by a letter from Mr. Pollard requesting me t" hunt her up and take care of her after he was dead. I shall not say he called her his grandchild uidess I am positively forced IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 4^. 1.0 I.I 1.25 ri^ IIM ^ fci IIIIIM us 1.4 1.8 1.6 6" Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. M580 (716) 872-4503 ^ s^ .•\ d^ o % V \ 6^ '^ 186 The Mill Mystery. to do so, nor will I mention the treatment I have received at your hands." " And the woman you say 1 " " Is your business. I have nothing to do with her." The shadow which till this moment had 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 c »mes when we shall appear before the judgment-seat of God, In that day, neither you nor I cpn 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 calmest and most courteous of tones, " shall I let this gentleman pass 1 " .The reply came in accents equally calm and courteous : " Certainly, my Ron." And Guy Pollard made me a deep bow, and drew softly aside from my path. I bad been within an inch of my death, but it scarcely ruHled me. CHAPTER 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 false- hood 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 calcula- tions. 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 dis- creet 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 the affair passed without scandal to the parties concerned. But not without result ; for deep down in the heart of one per- son 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 T have become convinced that, however unprincipled his brother might be, it was 187 188 The Mill Mystery. 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 iii 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, conscientious- ly, 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. CHAPTER 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. 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, orexpress cen- sure 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. 189 190 The Mill Mystery, But with the next day came a reaction ; and with a heart full of rejoicing, I prepared to communicate to D wight Pollard the fact of his release from the dominion of Rhoda Col well. 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 sus- picion of being the direct cause of David Barrow's death, and 1 knew her well enough, or thought I did, to feel certain that no re- venge, 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. 1 go to acquaint D wight 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 light- ness 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 particu- lar spot. And even now it only came with the thought of Guy, whose possible presence at the door would be any thing but desir- able. But my errand being one of peace I was enabled to con- template even this contingency with equanimity, and was about to ring the bell with a trembling but determined hand, when the door suddenly opened and D wight 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 Two or One. 191 received my first intimation of the feeling which his every look and gesture now conveyed. " Mr. Pollard," 1 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 sympatlay 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. Pol- lard. He was sitting with his face bent over the manuscript, a deep corrugation marked his brow, and a settled look of pain marked 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 192 The Mill Mystery. 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," saiil he. *' You con- sider 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 un- worthy 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 l)e 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 ray 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 ao- sorbing, 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," 1 nodded gravely. Tiuo or One. 193 ** You can, then, understand what a dilemma we were in some three months ago. My sister had attracted the notice of au English aristocrat. He loved her and wished to marry her. We admired him — or rather we admired his position (f would be bitttorly true at this hour) and wisheil to see the union effected. But there was a secret in oui- 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. Har- rington 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 1 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 obtain- ed in society, and could not endure the results which the revela- tion of such a stain in our family must produce. Not my mother, whose whole life since her rharriage ' d been one haughty protest against this secret shame, ivor 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 judg- ments and desires — she was not only a powerful woman, Constance, but possessed of a strong fascination for those she loved and sought to govern — I lent myself sufficiently to her schemes to stand neut- ral in the struggle between my father's wishes and her determina- tion, 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 if we could prevent an interview between him and Mr. Nicholls, the future would like- wise be safe from a discovery of our secret. It was therefore a 104 The Mill Mf/stery. terrihlo shock to my motlu!!- juui al'torwards to me vvlicii wo learn- t'd thai he hud ulreiidy accomplished thc! act wo so much drea(h^, and that the clcigymau who 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 exei-t its force on mo, for with my brother's re- cital of what had taken place at my father's death-bed there came a new dread which 1 find it dilHcult to name but which you will understand when I say that it led mo 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 tremV^led ; and as the night passed and morning came without showing any diminution in the set determination of his expression, I decided upon visiting Mr. Barrc ., s, 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 part- ly ; and I, with that worse dread in my soul, was fain to be satis- fied with the merely base and dishonorable scheme they meditated. To take Mr Barrows at a disadvantage, to argue with him, threat- en him, and perhaps awe him by place and surroundings to sur- render 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 to 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 receiv- ing 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. T'loo or One. 195 wn secret *' But tlio task waa unconpjenial, and at the first wordn wliioli Guy chose to employ against Mr. Barrows, 1 set down my lantern on the floor and escaped to the outer air again. Money, station, fame before the world, seemed to mo but liglit matters at that moment, and if I had followed my first impulse I should have rushed back to the assistance of Mr. Barrows But considerations terrible and strange prevented me from following this impulse. In the first place I was not myself free from a desire to see the contents of the will and judge for myself to what extent iiy fatlu^r had revealed our disgrace to the world ; and secondly, the habit of years is not broken in an instant, and this mother who gave her countenance to an act 1 so heartily disapproved, had for all her reserve and a nature seriously differing from my own, ever been the dominator of my actions and the controlling force of my life. I could not brave her, not yet, not while any hope remained of righting matters, without a demonstration that would lead to open hostilities. So with a weakness I now wonder at, I let the minutes go by till the sound of coming steps warned me that my brother was at hand. What he told me was brief and to the point. He iiad obtained the clergyman's consent to read the will and was on his way to get it. " But, Mr, Barrows V I inquired. " Is in the cellar there with mother." "The cellar!" T repeated. But he was already in the yard, on his way to the town. I was disturbed. The calmness of his tone had not deceived me. I felt that some- thing was wrong ; what I could not tell. Taking the lantern he had left behind him, I made my way to the cellar. It seemed empty. But when I had reached the other end I found myself confronted by a ghostly figure in which I was forced to recognize my mother, though the sight of her in the masquerade costume she had adopted, gave me a shock serious as the interests involved. But this surprise, great as it was, was soon lost in that of finding Ijer alone ; and when to my hurried inquiry as to where Mr. Bar- rows was, she pointed to the vat, you can imagine the tide of emotions that swept over me. But no, that is impossible. They were not what you would have felt, they are not what I would feel now. Mingled with my shame and the indignant protest of my manhood against so unworthy an exercise of power, was that still dominating mstinct of dread which any interference with my mother's plans or wishes had always inspired; and so when I learned that the worst was over and that Mr, Barrows would be 196 The Mill Mystery, released on CJiiy's rotiirn, T sulxlued my natural doHiro to rescuo him and went away, littlo roalizing that in tliUR allvJ»^«' myat^If with his persecutors, 1 liad laid the foundations of a re that would embitter my whole after existence The return ot my brother with the will caused me fresh emotions. As soon as I saw him I knew there was a struggle before me ; and in handing him back the lantern, I took occasion to ask if he had opened the document. He looked at me a moment before replying and his lip took a sinister curl. ' f have,' ho said. ' And what does it contain? ' * What we wish," he answered with a strange emphasis. I was too much astonished to speak. I could not believe this to be true, and when, Mr. Barrows having been released, wo had all returned home, I asked to see the will and judge for myself. But Guy refused to show it. ' We are going to return it,' he said, and said no more. Nor would my mother give me any further infor- mation. Either I had betrayed myself in the look I gave Guy on his return to the mill, or else some underlying regard for my feel- ings had constrained her to spare me actual participance in a fraud. At all events, I did not know the truth till the real will had been destroyed and the substituted one placed in Mr. NichoUs' hands, and then it was told to me in a way to confound my sense of right and make me think it would be better to let matters proceed to this false issue, than by a public acknowledgment of the facts, bring do\/n upon me and mine the very disgrace from which I had been so desirous of escaping. I was caught in the toils you see, and though it would have been a man's part to have broken through every constraint and proclaimed myself once and for all on the side of right, I had nothing whereby to show what the last wishes of my father had been, and could only say what would ruin us without benefiting the direct object of those wishes. I there- fore kept their counsel and my own ; stilling my conscience when it spoke too loud, by an inward promise to be not only a friend to my older brother's child, but to part with the bulk of my for- tune to her. That she would need my friendship I felt, as the letter I wrote to her shows, but that such evil would come upon her as did, or that my delay to see her would make it impossible for me ever to behold her in this world, 1 had yet too much filial regard to imagine. I was consequently overwhelmed by the news of her death, and though I never knew the whole truth till now, I was conscious of a distrust so great that from that day to the Two or One. 197 ro to resell o vir»(r my8(!lf (' that burn ot my ion fts I Haw landing him oponod the fing and his ^hat does it ^c emphasis, iliovo this to , wo had all lysolf. But he said, and urther infor- ^ave Guy on for my ieel- e in a fraud, rill had been holls' hands, )nse of right proceed to the facts, which I had )il8 you see, lave broken and for all lat the last would ruin Ijs. I there- ience when nly a friend of my for- feit, as the come upon i impossible much filial y the news k till now, day to the worsor ones which followed, I never looked at those nearest to me without a feeling of deep separation such pr 's only made by some dark and secret crime. I was alone, or so i felt, and was gradu- ally becoming morbid from a continual brooding on this subject, when the great blow fell which changed whatever vague distress I felt into an active remorse and positive fear. Mr. Barrows was found dead, drowned in the very vat into which my brother had forced him a month or so befor What did it mean ] It was impossible for me to guess the truth, but I could not but recognize the fact that we were more or less rcBponsible for his death ; that the frenzy which had doubtless led to this tragedy was the out- come of the strain which had been put upon his nerves, and though personally I had had nothing to do with placing him in the Vi*t, I was certainly responsible for allowing him to remain there a mo- ment after I knew where he was. It was, therefore, with the deepest horror and confusion that I rushed home with this news, only to find that it had outstripped me, and that my mother, fore- seeing the dangers which this death might bring upon us, had suc- cumbed to the shock, and lay, as you know, in a most alarming condition herself. The perilous position into which we were thrown by these two fatal occurrences necessitated a certain confi- dence between my brother and myself. To watch our mother, and stifle any unguarded expressions into which she might be be- trayed, to watch you, and when we saw it was too late to prevent your sharing our secret, to make our hold upon you such that you would feel it to your own advantage to keep it with us, was per- haps only pardonable in persons situated as we were. Bat, Con- stance, while with Guy the feeling that made this last task easy was one of selfish passion only, mine from the first possessed a depth and fervency which made the very thought of wooing you seem a desecration and a wrong. For already had your fine quali- ties produced their effect, and in the light of your high and lofty nature, my own past looked deformed and dark. And when the worst came, and Rhoda Colwell's threats put a seemingly immov- able barrier between us, this love which had sprung up in a very nightmarq of trouble, only seemed to take deeper and more bn' 'ng root, and I vowed that whether doomed to lifelong regret oi . :)t, I would live worthy of you, and be in misery what I could so easily be in joy, the man you could honor, if not love. That this hour would ever come I dared not dream, but now that it has, M 198 The Mill Mystery. can you, will you give me so much as you have, and not give me more ? I know I have no right to ask any thing from you ; that the secrets of our family are a burden which any woman might well fjhrink from sharing, but if you do not turn from mo, will you t irn from them 1 Love is such a help to the burdened, and I love you so fondly, so reverently." He was on his knees ; his forehead was pressed against my arm. The emotion which *;hoGk his whole body communicated itself to me. I felt that whatever his past weaknesses had been, he possessed a character capable of the noblest development, and, yielding to the longing with which my whole being was animated, I was about to lay my hand upon his head, when he lifted his face and, gazing earnestly at me, said : ** One moment ; there is yet a oloud which ought to be blown away from between us — Rhoda Col well. T loved her ; I sought her love ; but once gained, my eyes opened. I saw her imperfec- tions ; I felt the evil in her nature. I knew if I married her, I should ruin my life. I left her. I seemed to have no choice, for my love died with my esteem, and she was not a woman to marry without love. Could I have done differently, Constance 1 " I answered as niy whole heart inclined me to. I could not re- fuse this love coming into my desolate life. It seemed to be mine. Whatever trials, fear, or disquietude it might bring, the joy of it was great enough to make these very trials desirable, if only to prove to him and me that the links ^'hich bound us were forged from the truest metal, without any base alloy to mar their purity and undermine their strength. And so that spot of gloom, which had been the scene of so much that was dark and direful, became the witness of a happiness which seemed to lift it out of the veil of reserve in which it had been shrouded for so long, and make of the afternoon sun, which at that moment streamed in through the western windows, a sig- nal of peace, whose brightness as yet has never suffered change or eclipse. THE END. )t give me you that oaan might m mo, will dened, and igainst my amunicated i had been, ^ment, and, 3 animated, ted his face be blown [■ 3 I sought ir imperfec- rried her, I ) choice, for m to marry cer^ ould not re- to be mine, he joy of it 3, if only to were forged their purity 3 of so much a happiness ^hich it had L sun, which idows, a sig- >d change or